floating
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: House undergoes the experimental Ketamine treatment. He finds an ally and more in Cuddy. Story is pretty much about their relationship postshooting and into early season 3. As always, review and recommend. Some of you may also know me as SASMOM
1. Chapter 1Ketamine Dreams

Floating-by Barbara Barnett

House undergoes Ketamine Treatment as requested. This story follows "The Bargain." Strong House/Cuddy friendship.

A/N—Many people asked for additional chapters after I wrote "The Bargain," which as a stand-alone piece. This longer, multi-chapter piece is a sequel, I guess, to that story.

Chapter 1—Ketamine Dreams

At first he was floating, or so he thought. Dead? No, not dead. He didn't believe in an afterlife, so sensations, even floating, didn't make sense. And therefore "death" was not his reality.

So, he opened his eyes and found himself not floating, but tethered to a hospital bed by wires, tubing. An oxygen cannula irritated his nose. His first instinct was to adjust it away from his nostrils, but he found his wrists attached to the bed by hospital-issue restraints. What the Hell was this. Why was he there. Where was there, anyway?

Mild panic consumed him, sending the heart monitor into overdrive, which caught the eye of Lisa Cuddy. "House?" Delighted that he was waking, but concerned about his increasing heart rate and the panic in his eyes, she approached his beside and let the side rail down.

"Why am I…" His voice was raspy from disuse. "What am I doing…?" Cuddy saw his confusion.

"House!" She drew his eyes towards her own, holding his gaze. "Do you know why you are in the hospital."

"No. I…"

"Do you remember discussing the Ketamine treatment? Do you remember…"

"I…Ketamine. Resetting my neruoreceptors…break the pain cycle…German studies. But…"

"Temporary memory disruptions are common. You've been in a Ketamine-induced coma for five days. You brought the German studies to me, remember? You went over the research with me two weeks ago. Just relax. It's OK. You're about two minutes from full-blown tachycardia." He had been gripping her hand. The tension had not subsided.

She noticed the restraints, realizing that House would be confused about them, frightened. "You were beginning to move too wildly as we began to take you out of the Ketamine. I was afraid you'd pull something out, screw the whole thing up. If you'll let go my hand I'll untie them."

House hadn't realized he'd been holding Cuddy's hand. He pulled it away as if it burned, embarrassed. He hadn't the energy to think of a deflecting quip. She untied him and poured a glass of water. "Drink. It will make your mouth throat feel better." She was dying to ask him about the pain; whether the risky procedure worked. Clearly, he was not ready for conversation.

His eyes closed as Cuddy undid the restraints. His head felt as if it was filled with cotton batting. "Give yourself some time, House," he thought he heard her whisper as he drifted into sleep.

He was cross-country skiing. Gliding across a white plain. Silence surrounded him except for the swish-swish sound of skis fording a path through new powder. "Hey! Wait up!" An echo from far behind him, shattering the silence as her voice bounded through trees and careened off the sapphire sky. He stopped, turning, smiling. He waited as she skied towards him.

"Hurry. We got reservations, remember?" He tapped his wrist in a grand gesture, smiling. He loved watching her ski. She seemed to float over the trail he had created. Graceful, rhythmic motions.

As she neared, House noticed something awry. Something very un-Stacy-like. A bang shattering the silence. The white snow had become a sudden sea of red.

"Who would want you dead?" Bang.


	2. Chapter 2awake

Floating

Chapter 2

"House!" He was thrashing in his sleep. Cuddy practically threw herself across his body. "I need help in here!" She couldn't wrestle him and re-attach the restraints. And then he was calmer. The thrashing replaced by shallow breaths, a sheen of sweat covering him. All of the movement hadn't woken him.

"He's dreaming. Or hallucinating." Wilson had stopped by to check in. "He was awake briefly. Confused and disoriented. But that's pretty much to be expected. He's asleep."

"Vivid dreams are a common side-effect of the Ketamine treatment. So are hallucinations. Either way, they could last a long time, intermittently. Someone once described watching someone coming out of ketamine was like watching someone come out of the worst LSD trip imaginable. It won't be pretty." Wilson had argued against doing this. House had been in no condition to make a reasoned medical choice. Wilson, himself, had considered using ketamine from time to time with terminal patients. But had not. Too risky.

"Had he told you about the morphine?" Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "The pain had gotten so bad, he was getting no sleep. No relief. For him, a 'six' was a good day. He couldn't deal with it anymore. He had tried to get me to administer it spinally a couple of months ago. I was a big help. Gave him saline instead. He wanted so bad for it to work that it did, for a little while—while he was distracted. But he can't be distracted 24/7. I realize that we…or rather I…was underestimating the level of pain."

"Yeah, but how much of that is psych pain? I still think he's got a conversion disorder. It's…"

"No. It isn't. Maybe would make it easier if it was. Blame the victim and all that. But he doesn't want to be in pain. He told me that you said that he liked being miserable. In pain. That it made him 'special' somehow. I think we've both been guilty of that misjudgment."

"He's still not dealing with Stacy, and I think that has a lot to do with it."

"And when did you do that psyche residency? I talked to Stacy. Or rather, she talked to me. After House broke it off. She finally understood the pain she had inflicted on him; the hurt and damage. His honesty to her? Stacy said they were both in tears. As much as he wanted it. As much as he wanted to go back, he realized that he couldn't endure the devestation of a second breakup. Couldn't risk it. She told me that he was right. She hadn't realized until that moment how much he still felt for her; and how much pain he had suffered after she left. Guess you were right about that, at least. She had asked me what House was like after she split. I told her that he was the same narcissistic jerk he'd always been."

"As if he'd reveal anything else to you. No, the hurting side. That, he saved for me. But morphine? Isn't that a little extreme, even for House?"

"I thought that, too. I was wrong. Do you know that he's been to three pain specialists in the last year? He got it into his head that if he could deal with the pain, he might be better able to work it out with Stacy. Of course that was before he broke it off."

"He told you that?"

"When he was told me about the Ketamine studies and why he wanted to do it. The specialists told him nothing he hadn't already figured out himself. Nothing was working but the Hydrocodone. And with the breakthrough pain he's been having the last couple of months, he was at the end of his rope. We sure as Hell didn't help. The morphine was a last resort."

"You sure about that?"

"He doesn't want this. He feels trapped. He knows that his liver is living on borrowed time; he knows that he can't take any more Vicodin than he already is. About two and a half weeks ago, he started using morphine IV. Low dose and infrequent, just to cut the pain. He hadn't been sleeping. He said he couldn't think. If he couldn't think, what use was he as a doctor. It was his Hail Mary pass. But he also knew that it couldn't be long term, as he became dependent on the morphine and would need more and more. That's why he came to me with the Ketamine research."

House stirred again, this time opening his eyes. "Cuddy. Untie me." He was smiling groggily.

"So little Greggy Sunshine has decided to rejoin the world?"

"Just so I could say 'told you so' Jimmy. You were so wrong. See? I'm still here. Alive."

"How much do you remember?" Cuddy was still concerned about his earlier disorientation. Do you remember being shot?"

"Something. Was I really skiing?" Alarm bells rang in both Cuddy and Wilson. "Maybe not. I'm still a little hazy."

"You were shot by an intruder. Twice. Once in the abdomen; once in the neck. Once you were out of danger, I did the procedure we talked about. That was five days ago. I brought you out of it this morning and you've been sleeping it off."

"I remember that we were going to do the Ketamine thing. I don't…I…shot? I dreamed about getting shot in the snow. But…" House tried to control a rising panic. He knew that memory disruptions were common, though temporary. He'd been shot? "Where? Where was I shot?"

"I just told you." Cuddy's panic was not nearly so controlled. She rushed to his side, whipping out a penlight.

"No. Not anatomically. Where…"

"Your office," replied Wilson. Horror filled House's eyes in response to the new information as he tried to put it together and recall. Anything.

"Was anyone else….?"

"You seemed to be his only target." House breathed out in relief.

"And here I was thinking that I valiantly placed myself in front of Cuddy over here, taking a bullet for our beloved Dean of Medicne. I am so crushed."

Both Wilson and Cuddy were visibly relieved to see the reappearance of House's so-called sense of humor.

"How's the pain?"

"Until you mentioned it, I hadn't…" They all smiled at that. "Well, I won't know until I try to use it, now will I?"

Cuddy knew what he was asking. "Not quite yet. Let's get you off all of these machines, check you out completely. Then maybe we can go for a little walk. When you're ready. You've been through a lot and you're still recovering from some serious injuries." Cuddy noticed House's eyes were involuntarily closing. "You're still a little drowsy from the meds. Take it slow. Maybe let's try this evening? OK?"

"Yeah. Sounds good." And he was asleep again.


	3. Chapter 3Baby Steps

Floating

Chapter 3

House had been sleeping now for eight hours. The dim quiet of late night on a hospital permeated the barely lit halls. "Dr. Cuddy?" The late-shift unit nurse was surprised to see the Dean of Medicine wandering the hospital corridors at 12:15 a.m.

"How is Dr. House doing?" She looked at the monitor panel.

"Sleeping comfortably, it would appear."

"Any issues?"

"He seemed a little restless at the start of shift, but nothing else."

"Thank you." Cuddy slipped into House's room, taking seat at his bedside.

"How about we get you up for a bit. I know I promised it would be earlier, but I got tied up." She smiled at the comeback she was sure House would have had ready if he'd been conscious. In all honesty she was as curious as he was about whether the procedure worked.

Checking the side of the bed, she noted happily that the Foley catheter had been removed already. She stood and ran a finger along his left cheek. "House. Wake up. C'mon, I know you're dying to know." She was trying hard not to startle him. His eyes fluttered.

"Cuddy? What's wrong? What time is it?" He made a move to rise from the bed, but Cuddy and the soft restraints prevented him."

"Down boy. You're still tied to the bed."

"I bet you like that!" He was now fully awake.

"Can I turn the light on?" House nodded, closing his eyes and then letting them adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the room.

"Do you remember where you are?"

"Hospital. Why are…?"

"Do remember why you're in bed?"

"I was shot. Short guy." He looked around the room as if expecting to see him. "Ketamine treatment. I told Cameron to tell…"

"We did it. You don't remember discussing this earlier?"

"Yeah. And you said something about taking a walk in the park with me this evening. You never showed. I was so disappointed. Bought you flowers and everything. Not used to women standing me up."

"Right. And I didn't stand you up. I'm just fashionably late. Are you ready?" House nodded his head slightly. She could see both the fear and anticipation in his lavish eyes.

"I'm just going to disconnect you from all of these leads and things and then… House." Her tone changed from light to serious. "If this hasn't worked. If…"

"Let's get on with it. Spare me the pysch 101 lecture."

"I mean it, House. If it doesn't work, we'll find something else."

"Killjoy!" Cuddy unhooked the last of the leads from his chest."

"Ow. Hey, that pulled. You should work on your bedside manner."

"Oh, now there's the pot calling the kettle black."

"That the best you could come up with? Cuddy, you're either tired or you're slipping."

"OK, swing your legs around. You've been in bed for several days. You might be stiff, so…"

"Only around you." Cuddy could only roll her eyes.

"Any pain so far?" House shook his head. "Let me help you stand. You're still weak from the injuries and surgery and your blood pressure is going to fall though the floor when you stand."

"Hey, coincidence. I went to med school too." Cuddy slipped her arm around House's waist as he threw his around her shoulder. He noted the position and distance of the nearest chair. This would be a modest test. Shuffle the two steps to the chair. He should be able to make it that far before he began to feel faint.

"Any pain?"

"Not yet." He stood, trying to keep equal weight on both legs. They held. His right leg was weak. That was unmistakable. He could feel the weakness of it nearly for the first time since it had happened. He'd never been able to feel the weakness for the pain. Which had never abated. Until now. The realization that the procedure had worked began to dawn on him as he sat heavily in the bedside chair. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Ashamed, he averted his sight from Cuddy.

Cuddy sat on the bed facing House. She could only imagine the emotions that must've been surging through him at that moment. She gave him that moment and more. Finally she spoke. "Can you give me a number?"

He looked up at her. Bewildered, ecstatic, terrified. So many emotions in his damp eyes. "One." He looked away again, clearly embarrassed.

Cuddy got up to leave and afford House his clearly much-desired privacy. "You're leaving?"

"I thought I'd…"

"No. Stay. I apologize for this emotional… Stupid, huh?"

"No. Not stupid. It's called release, in case you _didn't_ know. You really have _no_ pain? In my leg? No. My abdomen on the other hand. Who did my surgery? Remind me to…well to do something evil to him."

"Top of my 'todo' list. You know this wasn't a real test of the procedure. But I'll take it for now."

"My right quad is going to need a lot of physio." Cuddy was taken aback.

"Like it didn't a week ago?"

"No. I mean, now I can feel the weakness. Before only… Of course I knew, but I couldn't…" He trailed off, feeling stupid at the obvious statement.

"Ready to get back into bed?"

"Why Cuddy…" he suggestively responded.

"Yeah, right."

"Pit stop first, if you don't mind."

"Can you make it that far?"

"I'll need your help." It was an admission that surprised her.

"What? No leering sidebar to that statement." He had been deadly serious.

"Not tonight." House mentally measured off the steps from the chair to the washroom. Nine. He could do this without passing out. 11 back to bed. It was worth a shot.

"Ready? Do you want to try to stand on your own?" House nodded slightly and began to stand, holding his breath, waiting for the bubble to burst and to awaken again to reality. He put his weight first on his left, straightening carefully. Testing. Then the right. Small, gingerly placed steps. Cuddy stayed just to his right. Spotting him, but not hovering. "Any pain?"

A shake of his head as he concentrated on the task. He willed himself to try a more normal gait, understanding it could never be completely normal. Cuddy waited outside the bathroom, tears again coming to her eyes. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving, finishing as House emerged.

"Thank you." His voice was low and raspy. She grasped his hand, entwining her fingers in his. He allowed her this.


	4. Chapter 4Hi Mom

Floating

Chapter 4

"I'm going to let you get some rest." Cuddy's eyes were still full of emotion. So it had worked. Well, probably it had worked. Taking 20 pain-free steps was hardly a conclusive clinical trial. He was probably still feeling the effects of the ketamine; maybe even residual effects of the morphine he had been on for the gunshot injuries.

House nodded slightly, not speaking. He did not meet her eyes as he got himself back into bed. No quips about tucking him in or a bedtime story. His expression told her much more than any banter could accomplish. She didn't quite want to leave, but knew she needed to. He needed some private time, and some sleep. She felt suddenly guilty for waking him up in the middle of the night. "G'night, House." Another tight nod. She might have taken it for a curt dismissal, but she knew better.

House was alone. Restless, he pondered the wisdom of trying another walk, this time unaided. His hand went instinctively to his right thigh. It was strange, feeling the terrible scar, its topography, without the usual accompanying pain. He massaged it reflexively. House heard the door open. He covered himself, closing his eyes. If the nurse thought he was asleep, maybe she'd leave him alone without performing yet another neurological check.

"Greg, we came as soon as we heard. We were in New Zealand." House's eyes flew open at the familiar voice.

"We know it's late, dear, but we just now arrived." He looked from one to the other. His mother, now standing at the rights side of his bed; his father's craggy face in the background, as he stood still near the door.

"So you got shot. Best thing that could've happened to you. Probably change your whole life. Make you appreciate what you have a little more. Toughen you up a little."

"John, please. Stop harassing him." Her light laugh making her voice almost musical. "Are you alright, Greg?

"They gave me something. Something that might help with my leg." The words were directed to his mother alone. "It's experimental, but…"

"Oh Greg, dear. That's wonderful!" She was weeping. Sitting on the bed, she stroked his forehead. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.

"Yeah, I know all about it. The Ketamine. Veterinary tranquilizers. Also known as Special K. Leave it to you to find a drug like that to help your leg."

"It has therapeutic uses…"

"Yeah. Fine. So? Show us. Show us how you can walk now."

"I really can't without…"

"Bullshit. Sit the Hell up. Swing your legs over the side and walk. We flew halfway around the world to see this."

"I thought you came because I was shot. How could you know…? Something was not making sense to him. He attributed it to fatigue and the mild disorientation he'd been feeling since waking from the treatment.

"I'm really not supposed to get up without assistance yet. My boss was just here. We walked a few steps." He sounded more defensive than he meant. "Tomorrow we can…"

"You always were a wuss."

"John! Your father didn't mean it, Greg. We'll come back tomorrow."

"No. Fine. You want a show? Maybe we should get a tent and some Billy Bob preacher to MC." Adrenaline surged through House's veins. He swung his legs around and stood in a quick motion. Without thinking, he took three large strides. "See! Gregory House is healed."

The lights came on suddenly in the room. "Oh my God. Dr. House! Are you OK?" The nurse called out into the hall. "I need some help in here." House was on the floor halfway across the room.

House reoriented himself from his vantage on the floor, making no attempt to move with three hospital staff surrounding him. He frantically peered around the room. "My parents. Where...? They were…" but his parents were clearly nowhere within the confines of House's hospital room.

"He must've torn his stitches." Blood covered the front of House's hospital gown. "We need to get…" were the last words he heard before losing consciousness.

House blinked hard as the room came back into focus. He was back in bed, soft restraints again limiting his movement.

He became aware of hushed voices in another part of the room. "Mom? Dad? You still here?" The room was brighter and the last thing House wanted was for his parents to see him restrained in his hospital bed.

"It's not your fault, Cuddy." Wilson's voice.

"I should have reattached the restraints."

"He'll be fine. Leave it to House to fall out of bed."

"Excuse me! Patient here in the room. Would you mind not whispering so loud? Or, better yet, stop talking about me entirely unless you do it loud enough for me to have fun too."

"Welcome back. Again." Wilson flicked a pen light into House's eyes. "We don't know if you hit your head when you fell."

"No, I don't think so. Did you send mom and dad off to the cafeteria for some coffee? How long have I been out?"

"Couple of hours."

"That would make it around…what? Eight a.m.? It is Tuesday. I am in Princeton Plainsboro Hospital recovering from… That good enough? Or did they flee?"

"What are you talking about? Flee? Who? The little green men who pushed you out of bed? House, c'mon be serious."

"No. My parents. You know, John House? Grumpy looking gray-haired dude, military bearing, ne'er a good word for anyone. That guy? Blythe. Not as grumpy, nor as gray. Nor as military for that matter. Female. My mother!"

Wilson and Cuddy looked at each other, bewildered, but with the edges of concern creeping over both of them.

"What?"

They turned their backs on him. More whispers. "C'mon guys. Seriously. Where did they go? They were here. I did something stupid, like trying to walk to impress daddy, neglecting to take into account neither my blood pressure nor the weakness in my right quad. That's how I fell. So? Did they see enough? And, Cuddy, by the way, I never told you to hunt them down on their vacation and bring them back halfway across the globe."

"House, what are you talking about. I wouldn't know how to contact your parents if I wanted to. As far as them being here…"

"OK, so it was Wilson. You'd know. You'd probably hack into my laptop to find his cell phone number." Wilson shook his head.

"The unit nurse reported hearing noise. 'shouting,' says here in her notes. She came in here to find out if you were OK and saw you on the floor bleeding. Halfway across the room. What? Were you trying to make it to the bathroom without assistance. Even you would know better than that."

"No. My. Parents. Were standing right here. Where you are. I took his bait. It was stupid. He demanded I show him how well I could walk now. It was a personal challenge. I should never have let him get to me—again. But I did. It was stupid." He was trying to gesture with his hands, unable to because of the restraints. "Now can you please untie me?"

Cuddy motioned Wilson from the room. He shrugged his shoulders and left, sighing. Cuddy approached House, sitting on the edge of his bed. Her voice was low.

"What happened after I left you last night? What do you recall. Take your time, but tell me in detail, so we can figure out…"

"You left. I was restless. Couldn't fall back asleep. I guess I was considering the implications of my little stroll last night. If the Ketamine worked, I guess it's going to have a pretty sizable impact. Lots to think about. I think I drifted off a little, but then my parents came into the room."

"In the middle of the night?"

"Said something about being in New Zealand. Just landing. Sounded weird, but that's just them. You know my dad. Or you should from your last encounter with him. Loves to push buttons. He pushed, I, feeling the rush of whatever I was feeling the rush of, accommodated. I took three giant steps and fell on my ass. Nurse came in. Don't know where my parents got off to…"

"House." She caught his eye, holding his gaze. "Listen to me. You know that Ketamine can cause hallucinations…"

"No. They were here. As real as.." She cocked an eyebrow.

"You know how real an hallucination can be. It can even, in a weird way, make perfect sense. Your parents aren't here. I believe that you believed they were here with you. You tried walking…for the reasons you said…and you fell."

House closed his eyes, absorbing the information. He recalled the hallucinations after just after he'd been shot. Moriarty. Balancing between living and dying.

"How do I know that you're real? How do I know that my parents being here wasn't real and that you're not an hallucination? How can I…?" House felt panic rising. Reason. Use your reason. If it doesn't make sense, it's not real. Push the hallucination. Just like with Moriarty. Just like…

"It doesn't make sense for my parents to have been here. Like you said, how would they even know…unless Wilson…And even he wouldn't do that to me. Right? Doesn't make sense. Can't be real. Right?" He was looking for affirmation.

"House. As long as you're having hallucinations and the vivid dreaming, I can't untie your restraints. I can't risk having you fall again and maybe really hurt yourself. OK?"

She waited for the comeback, not really expecting it. Not now, with House questioning his own sanity."

"OK." She noticed his hand was shaking. He noticed her noticing, quickly pulling the light blanket up to cover it.

"Give it time, OK? You didn't do too much damage with your stitches. Maybe later today we can try taking another walk. But no solo efforts. Get a little rest." She took his hand, squeezing it. He squeezed back, smiling sadly.

"Thanks, Cuddy."


	5. Chapter 5Expedition

Floating

Chapter 5

Two days had passed since first waking from the Ketamine coma. The vivid dreams had continued whenever he fell into a deep enough sleep. But no repeat hallucinations. House's mind had cleared and he was feeling stronger as everything healed. But two days of staying put was wearing thin. Waiting for clearance to walk beyond the walls of his hospital room was becoming a brutal game of anticipation and disappointment.

"Ready?" Cuddy stepped into his room.

"For…?"

"Wanna go for a walk down to the cafeteria? I'll buy you an ice cream sundae." House blanched.

"No. I…" He looked away. Cuddy suddenly realized. Too public. Too soon.

"Well…Better idea. Look the service elevator is right around the corner. We can take it down to the basement. Nice long corridor…Right near the morgue. No one really knows you down there…" House almost laughed. This was ridiculous. Why was he hesitant to be in public? Why was this becoming so hard?

House glanced at his cane sitting in the corner. "Look, House. Bring it with. Use it if you need to. If you don't or you do, you won't be conspicuous, if that's what you're…"

"You'd like that. If I brought my cane. Knew you always liked the hard wood."

"Yeah. Your best feature. Get your shoes on and let's blow this popsicle stand." Cuddy understood House's fears, although he'd never express them to her or anyone else. What if he failed? What if the short trip to the bathroom was all he could manage? It wouldn't be the failure itself, it would be the visible disappointment and hurt in his eyes that House wouldn't want so public. That sort of public display would never match with the Housian public persona. She knew he was taking a risk.

"I want Wilson in on this."

"That was random."

"Page him. Have him meet us down there. Let him pay. Sundaes all around." Cuddy smiled. Of course it made sense. Wilson was the skeptic. The one who was, even now, albeit privately to her, sure that House's pain was a conversion disorder. That no medical procedure would help him more than a couple of hours while he was distracted.

"Are you sure that you don't want to wait?"

"Why?" Cuddy shrugged her shoulders.

"I just think. Let's do this. We'll party tomorrow. With everyone. The whole Scooby Gang." House nodded tightly. He looked tense. "You OK?"

"Stitches are still pretty uncomfortable." Idiot. Of course. Shoes would be a real problem for him. He had been trying to reach for them, gasping at each attempt to get them from the floor. "Do you mind…?"

"Here, let me do this. You can barely bend. We should get you a pair of those cute hospital slippers. Be easier." She eased the right shoe onto his foot, tying it tightly. "My, my, what big feet you have Dr. House!"

"Better to…oops can't say that to my boss. My bad." He was smiling at least. And some of his tension seemed to abate a little.

"Hey, I made the foot comment. How's your leg?"

"Seems OK. When do I start physio to strengthen it?"

"Friday. Inpatient for a complete workup for your leg and other injuries, then outpatient beginning…Sunday, I think."

"Sunday. Great."

"Ready? Don't expect miracles, House. That muscle is very weak, so be gentle with your right leg."

House carried the cane in his left hand, making his way to the door. He felt free. Free of wires, tubing, soft wrist restraints. Free of a third leg. Free of the pain that had held him hostage for eight years.

The limp was still there. It always would be. A support of some kind would help, he was thinking. That and the physio… He walked slowly, testing, finding a correct pace and bearing.

"Any pain, Dr. House?"

"Not so far, Dr. Cuddy." He looked straight ahead, not attempting eye contact. "Not so far," he repeated in a bare whisper.

"Some of the pain relief may be coming from the ibuprofen you're taking for your more recent injuries, but…"

"No. Ibuprofen doesn't…hasn't worked. You know that."

"Just trying to keep you skeptical here."

"Hah! Right."

"I just know that hope is a funny thing. We all can have it. It's just something new for you. Don't want it to get all out of control or anything!"

"Yeah. You are the master of pessimism." House smiled as the elevator dinged. The doors opened the first floor lobby.

"Dr. House. Good to see you up and about. I stopped by, but the unit nurse said no visitors, so… Any word about when you're coming back?"

"Miss me, Dr. Cameron?"

"No, I…" She was flustered and House was enjoying it.

"Relax. Cuddy tells me that you're all rotated to appropriately challenging departments. Not as challenging as diagnosing leprosy or seeing your boss nearly killed before your eyes, I'll admit, but…" He glanced at Cuddy to answer the actual question.

"A week probably." Cameron hadn't appeared to notice the change in House's ability to walk. Or she was too polite to ask. Good. If she, the most nosy of colleagues, hadn't said anything, maybe no one would. Oh, there'd be talk. But at least he'd be spared from having to deal with it for a week. And then everyone would know. It had worked!


	6. Chapter 6 Sundae with Cuddy

Floating

Chapter 7

House reached across the table and snatched the cherry from the top of her sundae. "It would be too obvious, so we'll just leave the visual. That real ice cream under there?" House gestured to the elaborate confection on display in front of Cuddy.

"Special occasion." They had made it..or rather he had made it from his room to the cafeteria without the aid of his cane. Cuddy noted that he was slightly favoring his right leg, and his gait was far from perfect. With the right sort of thigh support and long term physio, the limp might be reduced quite a bit more. "How's it feel?"

"Good."

"Pain?"

"Not from the leg. It feels fine. It's good," he repeated as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. Even the morphine didn't completely erase the pain. But what was left of it, the morphine buzz took care of.

"You know you've been of vicodin for a week now." House nodded slightly, acknowledging the simple fact. Cuddy set her hand on his across the table. House glanced around surreptitiously, slightly uncomfortable with the very public physical contact. "House, I'm sorry."

"For?" She noted his discomfort, removing her hand from his.

"For doubting you. About the pills, the pain. You came to me that night begging for my help. To give you morphine. I gave you saline. I wanted to prove to you that it was all in your head. I was angry and concerned. I was wrong. It was even more wrong of me to tell you. In that way. I was cruel. I left you standing alone in my office with that information…I'm just sorry. There's nothing I can say…"

"Cuddy." He did not want to be having this particular conversation in so public a place. "I know what placebo effect is, and I know what it isn't. I also know that pain level is affected by distractions of any kind. Your placebo took some of the edge off, as did the case. But I also knew…know that the pain in my leg is NOT a conversion disorder. Nor was the increased pain due to letting go of Stacy. That pain…" He trailed off, not wanting to go there. "Point is that, yes, what you did caused me to doubt my handle on reality. For a while. Days, maybe. The pain increase became pretty much a constant in my life. Whether I was working or sleeping; biking, watching a monster truck special on TV. Didn't matter. I knew something was going on. I had a pretty good idea as to what. Didn't know what to do about it until I'd read that German study."

"Why didn't you come to me? Or to Wilson? Or even to one of your staff?"

"I did. I went to Wilson and then you with the study."

"No. I mean before. When you were sure."

"I couldn't. You know that. Would you have believed me? Would he? You both thought I was crazy. Looking for more and better drugs. Déjà vu all over again." Cuddy winced, remembering.

"House, Cuddy? How's the patient?"

"Ah, Jimmy. Good to see ya. Have a seat. Promise I won't steal your cherry. Of course you don't have a ridiculously caloric whipped cream festival like Cuddy over here, but, still…" Wilson rolled his eyes.

Wilson's eyes settled on House's cane leaning against the table. "Didn't use it, Wilson."

"You don't say." He was trying to be casual, let House lead this dance.

"It worked." Cuddy was beaming. "Hey, Wilson, let's go hit the discos tonight. You and me, all those beautiful college babes…"

"That's my cue." Cuddy stood. "Dr. Wilson, I'm sure I can rely on you to get the patient back to his room."

"In due course." They watched Cuddy trying to leave as she was surrounded by several doctors and nurses, curious about House.

"So it really worked! Cuddy told me that you were walking a little, but this…And there's _no _pain? None."

"No pain. Not from the leg. My surgical wounds, on the other hand…"

"That's unbelievable. Are you taking anything?"

"Ibuprofen for the gunshot wounds. Nothing for the leg. Of course the IB is affecting the leg too, but… I'm not kidding myself. I'll probably have to keep taking something. The pain's not going to completely disappear. It'll probably come back to some degree… But right now, with whatever psychological effect, release of endorphins, adrenalin, whatever, the pain level is at a steady zip."

"How permanent is it?"

"Your mileage, or rather my mileage will vary. It can be two days; it can be six months, even a year."

Wilson frowned. "So, it's not a complete fix."

"No. Still, even six months…" Wilson peered at House. But this was not House. This was House nine years ago. There was an earnestness in his voice. Even his eyes were different. House with some remnant of hope? Wilson was sure he was dreaming.

"Can I take a look at the research?"

"Didn't know you read German. Even my Yiddish is better than yours."

"You translated it for Cuddy."

"Ask her then." This was House. Wilson looked at House, puzzled. "I offered it to you first, you wouldn't go near it. I had to go to Cuddy. Think that was something I relished doing? You want the research, ask her. I only offer once."

"House…c'mon. I thought…"

"I know what you thought." House glanced around uncomfortably. "I don't want to do this here. Now."

"You brought it up."

"Your upsetting the patient." House rose from his chair, in a this-conversation-is-over gesture. Rising a little to quickly for his still-fluctuating blood pressure, he sat back down.

"You OK?"

"Great." Wilson noted the barriers were back up with new guards posted. "Ready to take me back to my cage? Don't forget to put the restraints back."

Wilson looked at House's barely-touched ice cream, which had now morphed into a multi-colored semi-liquid sludge. Sighing, he grabbed House's cane, offering it to him. House ignored the proffered object, trying to muster as much dignity and indignation as could be had in a hospital gown. He stood again, this time more deliberately and walked ahead of Wilson.


	7. Chapter 7 Hopes and dreams

Floating

Chapter 7

"Why do _you _think he can't have visitors?" A cup of coffee shared with colleagues on a break from Walter Peterson's immunology research lab.

House's outer office was too neat. Unused since the afternoon of the shooting, it had that abandoned look about it somehow. Chase's eyes drew to the floor near the white board. It had been cleaned. Everything had been cleaned. Blood had gotten everywhere. Books, desks. It was better that the office was left closed. That they were rotated to other departments.

"Maybe they're doing a personality transplant. Who the Hell cares. This way, we're not obligated to be polite and visit, and we get a week or two off from his abuse. Win-win." Foreman had been re-assigned to neuro.

"I saw him with Cuddy this morning. In the lobby."

"So?" Chase was back in the NICU. This time it wasn't voluntary. "How's he doing?"

"They were walking. Quite a sight. House in a hospital gown and gym shoes."

"Guys, I've got to get back in 10 minutes. Can we please _not_ talk about House. We have a vacation from him, let's not spoil it by talking about him. Neuro's been a nice break. Whitman's a great mind. I'll actually be sorry when I have to come back here."

"House's injuries were bad, but he's not in ICU. And he's ambulatory. It is pretty strange that they're not allowing any visitors."

"Maybe he just wants a little privacy." All three turned towards the voice coming through from the door between House's inner and outer offices.

"Dr. Cuddy. How is House doing?" Cameron approached, her eyes concerned.

"House is doing great. He'll be back to harassing you on Monday. He just needs to be cleared by phisio."

"No. I mean, how's he doing. You know, the shooting. It must have been traumatic for him. Has he talked about it at all?" Great, thought Cuddy. All House needs is to have her hovering. Cuddy sighed.

"No. He hasn't spoken of it at all. I think he's just concentrating on getting physically healthy right now."

"Huh," barked Foreman, "Just what we need. Add PTSD to his chart. Off the edge." He sounded almost delighted at the prospect. "That'll be one train wreck I'd be glad to not witness, thank you very much."

"Aren't you being a little too quick to think that? Maybe he'll be fine. And he just hasn't wanted to talk to anybody yet."

"Coming from the king of internalized emotions, himself. Strike a little too close to home, Chase?"

Cuddy watched the bickering. She had considered the idea of leaving the department intact for House's absence. Leaving Foreman in charge again. But without House there to keep Foreman's wings clipped back, she had had grave concerns. And rightly so, it would seem.

"I'll just let you three get back to your coffee klatch. I just came down to get House's mail for him. And his iPod. She brandished the little white music device."

House was asleep when Cuddy walked in on him. She quietly placed his iPod on the bedside tray and turned to go.

"NO!" House was struggling against the restraints, no longer calmly sleeping. "Not my leg. Don't shoot my leg!"

Cuddy made her way hastily back towards his bedside. "House." Her voice was calm but firm, not wanting to startle him. She placed on hand on his left shoulder, gently shaking him, trying to rouse him.

She maintained her grip on his shoulder as he came out of the deep, fitful sleep. He looked into her face, disoriented.

"Hey. It's OK. It's OK." She looked down, noting that his wrists were red from the struggle. "You were dreaming. Was it a bad one?"

House was breathless, nodding. "My leg…"

"…Is right here! Intact and pain free, remember." Another nod. "Scoot over." House did as he was told, regaining his composure.

"Why, Cuddy! Presumptuous, aren't we?"

"I just want to sit."

"I believe there are devices for that. New invention. I think it's called a char? Choor? Something like that." She sat down on the edge of House's bed, untying his wrists in a two quick motions.

"You haven't talked about it." House looked puzzled.

"It. By 'it' you mean what exactly."

"The shooting." Cuddy's face was serious. "Not since you regained consciousness. It might help. To talk about it. I can arrange…"

"I'm fine." The defensive line was back intact.

"Physically, yes. House, you were shot. At point blank range. In your office. In front of your team. You can't be OK. Not if you're human." House arched an eyebrow.

"You are _human_, House. And whatever you may wish people to believe about you, and despite your best efforts, you _are_ human."

"Not really ready for this."

"Clearly. If you don't want to talk to a counselor here, I can arrange…Or talk to me. Or Wilson. But don't let this fester too long. Is the vivid dreaming getting any better? Are you getting much rest at all?"

"I see _him_. He's the constant. My personal Professor Moriarty."

"So what's he do, Sherlock?"

"Different stuff each time. It always ends the same. He shoots me. I can't stop it. Him. In the leg. In both legs. I never die, just suffer. Lie there fucking helplessly in pain. And then more people die around me. Sometimes it plays out till I'm in a cemetery somewhere surrounded by bodies that keep piling up around me. Sometimes people I know: you, Wilson, Stacy, patients. Sometimes not. I can't get rid of them. The dreams. They're there all the time, even when I'm awake, they'll just come back to me."

"Guess that's why they call them vivid dreams." She smiled wanly at him. "It's mostly the after-effects of the Ketamine, I think. We expected it."

House nodded. "It's an equitable trade-off. My Faustian bargain, I guess."

"When you're ready, tell me about the shooting. Any time. Even at three a.m."

"Ooo goody." House glanced at the wall clock. "Time for physio. My favorite."

"Yeah right."

"Maybe later. You, me, we take a walk, see the sights. After hours. I'd like to retrieve my GameBoy. Know I can't go myself…"

"I'll see you at 10:00 p.m."

"Don't be late." Cuddy swept out of the room as the PT tech entered bearing a wheel chair for the ride down to physio.

"My chauffeur awaits. To Physio, Jeeves!"


	8. Chapter 8 simple pleasues

House's head was clearer than it had been for years. The five-day ketamine treatment had cleared his system of opiates. He had been off morphine for his injuries for nearly three days. Every thought, sound and idea rang in his head without having to reach for it. He had forgotten how that felt.

He was lost in the Magic Flute. He felt surround by the beauty and unadulterated joy of the Mozart opera thinking how it contrasted at that moment with his Requiem. House conducted with small movements of his hands and anyone who walked into the room was sure to think him insane. Well, they thought him insane anyway, but not quite in that way.

It was a good way to pass the time until he and Cuddy took their midnight stroll. The corridors would be darkened, the curious eyes of colleagues would be absent. He looked forward to the exercise.

"House." A voice penetrated the aria. It did not sound like Cuddy. He opened his eyes. "House." He repeated, a flat lowly intoned tenor. The voice now had a face. The shooter.

House's eyes widened. He reached for the call button. "Put it down, House. I'm just here to talk to you." His tone was collegial.

"You're supposed to be dead. Why…? You can't be real. I must be…"

"No, I'm real."

"As real as Cuddy. Or you. Now that's interesting. You and Cuddy."

"I'm calling…"

"Relax."

"I know what you are. And you're not real. You were killed. They told me…"

"Yeah. And everybody tells the truth. Your motto, right?"

"No. I…"

"Hey. I'm not here to finish the job. No, that you'll do yourself. You think you're in the clear? Pain free? Grab onto life again? Maybe set up housekeeping with the boss? Who're you kidding?"

"Now, wait a minute. At least be consistent. In your last appearance, you told me I didn't want to live. Now you tell me I can't. Make up your mind. Or my mind. I was confused. You are my mind."

"Well, believe that if you want."

"Anyway. I remember you. It wasn't your wife I treated. It was you. Clinic. So that whole sad story was just a load of bullshit. Your wife didn't commit suicide. Or if she did, it wasn't my fault."

"Yeah? Then who was she? That gorgeous brunette."

"She was the wife of a patient. Just not you."

"You said yourself, their integers didn't match. Could be his wife. Wouldn't make sense if she was."

"Fine. You're so smart, then who was she?"

"Stacy."

"Yeah, well see, that's where you're wrong. She didn't look anything like Stacy. Didn't even sound like her."

"Well, remember, she was a hallucination, after all."

"Why the Hell do you keep bothering me?" House clamped down his eyes, willing Moriarty away.

"Oh. Well. I guess I could go. I thought we had a date." House jumped. The voice had changed. Cuddy.

"I…uh…"

"You weren't dreaming. Were you hallucinating again?"

"No. I…" But Cuddy knew better. House was deeply shaken. His breathing was too shallow.

"Do you want me to come back? Do you need some time…?" He took several deep breaths, desperately trying to calm himself.

"No. I mean…Is it 10 already?" Cuddy observed that his hands were trembling. House glanced warily around the room. "Let's go."

The hospital corridors were nearly empty. "Your walking better. How was physio? Of course she knew, but she wanted his assessment."

"Good. They gave me routines and a schedule. For my recent injuries and my not so recent injuries. Twice a week with Framington. A soft brace for my right thigh to support the remaining muscle. I could never wear one before. The friction and pain were too intense. My leg couldn't handle the pressure. So, now that I'm…well, we'll give it another try. It was the shooter." House had stopped in his tracks, turning to face Cuddy.

Cuddy was bewildered at the seeming _non-sequitor_. "I saw him. Just before you came in."

"You hallucinated him. He's dead. There's no way…"

"Yes. I know that. He was so real. How can I tell. What if it's not obvious? What if…?"

"How frequent? Any you haven't told me about? I know about your parents, but…"

"No that was the last one. Cuddy, if I can't tell reality from something I conjured in my mind, how will I be able to practice medicine? How will I…?"

"They will get less. I know it's upsetting." They were walking again. "House…Greg…tell me what you remember about the shooting. The shooter." They approached House's office. House paused at the door, gazing into his inner office, careful to not look into the conference area. Grateful that it was dark. "You sure you want to go in there?"

"Not really. I want to sit outside for awhile. This seems as good a place as any. Wilson's not around tonight is he?"

"I doubt it. I think he has a hot date." House arched an eyebrow.

"Jimmy… Well, he doesn't waste a moment of time, does he? No key." Cuddy produced a large key ring.

"Got just the thing for breaking into a locked office. Right…..here." She brandished the key, offering it to him, rather than opening the door herself. House smiled. He finally looked relaxed again, she noted.

House walked quickly through the office, picking up the immense red and white tennis ball before opening the terrace door. Cool nighttime air washed over him. The breeze was heavy with rain. Lightning flashed far in the distance. He leaned on the terrace wall, letting the breeze cleanse him of the endless days of confinement. This was so much the weather he loved to ride his bike in. Not tonight.

Cuddy had been standing near the door, just watching. Observing from her oblique angle of him. His eyes had been closed as he leaned into the breeze. When they opened, they seemed to catch all of the moonlight, making his eyes luminous. They were moist, she thought.

House turned and settled into one of the terrace chairs. Cuddy followed suit. "He was a clinic patient. Nothing out of the ordinary. I think he had the flu. I maybe saw him for five minutes."

"I know." House tilted his head, wondering how. "I looked up his chart. With you, who knows why anyone would want to come in and shoot you. But no. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a crazy guy. Who knows what set him off. He's dead. Hold on to that thought the next time he makes an random appearance in your life. OK?"

House smiled. But they both knew it was never that simple when it came to the mind, especially House's mind. Especially now that it had been somewhat altered, albeit and hopefully, temporarily.

"How will I do this, Cuddy?" He looked away from her, avoiding her eyes, hating this feeling of vulnerability. "How will I do my job if I can't tell what's real?"

"You can, most of the time. And the hallucinations will go away. We both know they will. You have to give yourself time."

"Yeah. I know. You already said that."

"Talking about it will help. I know you hate that idea, but don't keep it a secret. At least tell someone when you've had one, or think something strange is happening. Or when it's over. Or you're afraid you're losing your grip. You know you can call me. Any hour. Any day. Anywhere. Even if I'm on the golf course."

House tried looking away, but Cuddy stopped him, touching his face and drawing his eyes toward her own. "I'm serious. You are as far from insane as anyone I know. I won't let you do this to yourself. I won't let you…

"I never told you how much I appreciated your keeping my confidence when…You know when I was doing the fertility treatments. I didn't think that…"

"I told you. I'm a really good secret keeper." He was trying to break the serious mood. He was uncomfortable with gratitude. Some things never change. "So, what happened? Did you turn off that biological alarm clock, or just hit the snooze button?"

"I think I'll keep doing the fertility treatments. Maximum effectiveness won't be until next month. But I think once I find…if I find…I told you that you were right. I need to find the right one. Someone I like. Someone I trust." Her voice had too much emotion, she knew.

"Any time, Cuddy. Any hour. Any day." He sat back, shutting his eyes. Enjoying the peace, the night air. Even the approaching storm.

"Hey we need to get you back to your room. I'd be setting a really bad example if I let a patient get soaked in the rain, huh?"

"Right."


	9. Chapter 9 Home

Floating

Chapter 9

Home. He had been sensible and allowed Wilson to drive him home upon discharge. He was still tired and with the hallucinations still plaguing him, the last thing he needed was to be driven off the road by something or someone who wasn't really there. He hadn't gone through all of this to end it all on the ride home. That would have been a little too ironic, even for House.

For what it was worth, Wilson was apologetic in the extreme that he had fought House on the procedure, calling it too risky. He had already seen a change. House seemed…well…as happy as House could seem. He appeared to have arrived at a sort of peace with himself.

"Want a beer?"

"No. Date tonight. And I want to be sober. And you shouldn't be drinking. Not until you're free of side effects. As if that's going to hold."

"I wasn't planning on drinking. I am high on life. And that's enough for me." House's voice dripped sarcasm.

"Put it on a bumper sticker. I'm going home. Enjoy this, House. It's a second chance."

With Wilson gone, House explored his apartment for the first time in over a week. His cleaning service had been by and at least the dishes were washed and the expected layer of dust was missing from all of the expected places.

He glanced at his answering device. No messages. Not unexpected. Who would call? House's eyes rested on the lock box. His morphine rescue kit. First aid for the mortally in pain. Picking it up, he wondered what he should do with it. Break the vials? Lock it and flush the key down the toilet? He considered his options before carefully replacing the box on the top shelf, burying it behind several medical texts and journals. He would try to forget where it was, lying to himself that he had. But knowing where it was. Just in case. Ketamine was a treatment. Not a miracle. And he didn't believe in those anyway.

The piano. He had missed it. Listening to music was too passive. He needed to feel the vibration of the strings in his fingers and his feet. In his head. He played late into the night. It didn't matter what. Beethoven; Mozart; Scarlatti; Monk, Peterson, McPartland, House. He didn't care if the neighbors complained.

Every eye amongst the PPTH staff was on Dr. Gregory House as he strode into the hospital. He had removed the helmet and leather jacket and was walking briskly to the elevator. Had it not been for the slight limp to his gait, some might have missed the fact that it was, indeed, Gregory House.

Wilson met him at the elevator. "Is it Halloween? No. Let me guess! Lawyer. You're dressed up as a lawyer. Clever costume. No one would ever guess."

"Only flaw in your reasoning, Jimmy, is that Halloween is three months away. Don't rush the season."

"OK, so it's not Halloween. What's with the getup?"

"It's my Monday outfit. Off-white…more cream colored, maybe. Linen. They get progressively darker as the week goes on. For Friday I have a cute little undertaker black three-piece. It's the new me. Seriously."

"Right." They got off the elevator, going in opposite directions.

House entered the conference room, facing the three fellows for the first time since the shooting. He glanced at the white board, momentarily seeing Moriarty's face hovering just to the side of it. He looked away.

"Good morning people. No referrals this morning. Hope you've all had a nice break. I know I have. Use this morning for writing and research. I know you all have journal articles in progress. Let me know if I can be of any assistance."

The three doctors had been gawping at House since his entrance. This, they continued to do, stunned at the transformation.

"Cuddy told us about the Ketamine. You were taking a big risk. You could have all sorts of lasting side effects." Foreman had thought that barely-studied procedure was too radical. Typical House.

"Including the one biggie. No pain. I like that one. It's a keeper."

"You have no pain?" Cameron was incredulous.

"Yeaahh…I'm betting that I'm not half as attractive now as I was a week ago. Still have the gunshot wounds tho. Lots of stitches, so…"

"You're still an ass."

"But a well-dressed and pain-free ass. But, yes, Cameron. No pain. Not from the leg."

"How does it feel after all those years?"

Honesty time. "Good, Chase. Great, actually. I'm going to my office. Catch up on my email and other assorted goodies. Come get me if you need my input or we get an interesting case."

House walked across the outer office, purposely avoiding the area near the white board, afraid of what he might see; might remember. Stepping into his private office, he threw his jacket and bag down on the desk. Picking up a stack of mail, he settled into the Eames chair. Even the simple act of sitting seemed to provide a new pleasure.

But now what? The mail was still boring. He was still riding the high of improvement in his leg, but he was exhausted. The dreams were still making his sleeping hours unrestful and the hallucinations kept in a near constant state of wariness when he was awake. Even coming in this morning had cost him. He was drifting off, a medical journal falling from his hands.

"Dr. House?" Cameron had quietly entered the inner office. House startled, knocking the entire stack of mail from his lap, scattering it into a pool at the base of the easy chair.

"Boring article. Total snooze-fest. What's up? Have nice break from me?"

"I just wanted to say that I'm glad the procedure worked. When it happened…when you asked me to tell Cuddy to give you Ketamine, I had no idea…I mean…But I wanted you to know that your wishes were made known. I didn't want…"

House nodded, understanding. "Thank you." His voice was quiet. Sincere. Like when he had thanked her for not intruding upon his dinner with Blanche and John.

"Do you know how long it will last? How long until you'll need to do it again?"

"Could be six months; could be a year. The pain could be re-triggered an hour from now. There's no way of knowing. There's a small possibility that the pain will never return in the same way…or creep up to the level it was a year ago. Or be more severe than it was two weeks ago. There's just no way to know."

"I know it's hard for you to…you know…accept help…especially from me…from us. But I just want you to know that if there's anything I can do, anything that you need.."

Another tight nod. House drifted back to sleep. Real sleep. He did not dream.


	10. Chapter 10 mutual affection

"It may be your last chance, House. I would go for it."

"You would, Wilson."

"No, I have. PPTH _is_ a good hospital, despite what you may think."

"What I know."

"She's a good dean. She's offering you the deal of a lifetime. An endowed chair, budget for three fellows, no lecturing schedule. No quota on the number of patients you have to see to keep the chair. You publish one paper or speak at one conference a year. This, after you've been sacked by four other hospitals."

The conversation came back to house as he slept peacefully in his office. Stacy had pushed the idea as well. Anything to end the endlessness of House's desolation.

"She's doing it out of guilt. Her last attempt to rehabilitate me. To fix me. Well, sorry, what's broken is pretty unfixable."

"It's an endowed chair. With the string attached that you fill the chair. It's not her. It's a grateful patient. You saved his granddaughter."

"Niece."

"Whatever. The point is…"

"I know what the point is. I don't want someone's gratitude. I did my job. That's all."

"It won't kill you to do this. Hey, we can have lunches. Give the nurses grief…" House had glared at Wilson in response, but accepted the post anyway.

House's eyes fluttered open. The office was dark, except for his desk lamp and the glow of his computer screen across the room. How long had be in out? Squinting at his wrist, he noted the late hour. After midnight.

"Working late?" His office door opened as Cuddy walked in.

House stretched, yawning. His hand instinctively going to his right thigh and massaging it. "And why are you still here?"

"Donor reception. I was on my way home. Someone told me they saw your lights still on. I didn't know you had a new case." House noticed her attire. She was wearing a turquoise silk halter dress.

He saw no point in lying. "I fell asleep reading." Cuddy noticed the pool of unopened mail surrounding the base of the chair.

"I see. Must be a fascinating article. How long were you out?" He considered the question.

"Maybe six hours."

"How have the dreams been?"

"None this time. Not that I was aware of, anyway. I think I dreamt about you for a minute before I woke up." Her eyebrow quirked, waiting for the punch line. None was forthcoming. House struggled to sit and get up.

"You OK?"

"Just a little sore from the physio." And a little stiff from sleeping in an unnatural position for six hours. Cuddy extended her hand.

House glanced sheepishly at Cuddy, accepting her assistance, wishing for a very brief moment that his cane had been nearby. He was not accustomed to getting out of the deep and comfortable chair without its aid.

"I need some air. Step out on my balcony with me?" Her hand was still gripped in his.

"This a come-on?" He dropped her hand, walking out onto the terrace, sitting hard on the chair.

"I never thanked you, Cuddy."

"For what? For this? You did." She sat in the other chair, facing him. "I didn't do anything."

"You saved my life. In a lot of ways." Cuddy was getting concerned. This was bordering on maudlin, and undecidedly un-Houselike.

"What the Hell is going on with you? This was your procedure. Your notes. Or rather the Germans'. You don't remember?" She had misunderstood him.

"No. Not this. For everything. For creating this job for me…"

"I didn't…"

"I know you did."

"House, I know what's happened…with the Ketamine, the shooting…has been…must've been…be emotional for you. I can't begin to understand what you're going through right now. But I didn't…" He knew she was lying and he loved her for trying to keep the illusion.

"House, for what it's worth, you've saved this hospital millions more than you've cost it. Lawsuits unfiled for lives saved. You're relentlessness with those sick babies…that epidemic last year. If you hadn't…"

"I do my job."

"And I do mine. No thanks required or sought. I'm no different than you in that respect."

"And in others…_vive la difference_!" She touched his face, sending a chill down his spine, while creating other sensations elsewhere. "Cuddy, I…"

"House…" She was slightly high from the cocktail reception, emboldened by his mood, aroused a newly perceived gentleness in his eyes and this sudden vulnerability. "Not right now, but after you've recovered completely. Would you consider…? Could you see yourself being…" No, she thought. This wasn't right. Not now. Cuddy reddened, pulling her hand away, standing. "I'd better go."

House regarded her. He was fairly certain about what she was trying to ask him. "I told you I'd help with your biological clock, if that's what…" He stood along with her. Still flustered she began to flee back into the office. "Cuddy. I could use a lift home. I'm not sure I'm quite alert enough for my bike. I'm still pretty tired. Would you mind."

She smiled at what she was pretty sure was a noble gesture, gallantly changing the subject, putting her more at ease. This was different. But then she remembered that evening, House and Wilson leaving the hospital after House had figured out the whole baby thing. She was sure that House would have gone for the jugular. Exposing the whole thing to Wilson and then the entire hospital would know. But he hadn't done that. He had said nothing to Wilson. Kept her confidence, even when she had not asked him to, not expected him to.

The short drive back to 221B was quiet. House noticed that Cuddy's driving was slightly erratic. "I think you could use a cup of black coffee before you try driving again. Wouldn't want to crash this beautiful Lexus. That would be a terrible crime."

"No. I'm fine."

"I grind my own beans. Well…I don't grind them myself. Coffee maker does though. Wilson hooked me on it when he was residing with me. I made him leave me the fancy coffee maker when he moved out as rent." Cuddy smiled. She knew it was dangerous. Going in with him. She realized it was only coffee, but her hormones were raging. She was slightly drunk and she quite unexpectedly found herself very attracted to Gregory House.

She watched him as he switched on lights around the apartment. His gait was better, even without the cane. The limp was there and she suspected that he wasn't going to be running any marathons…or even long walks in the park. But it was better. And it seemed to her that he was OK with it. His whole mood; his entire demeanor was different. She wondered how much was being newly pain-free and how much had to do with the shooting. She really didn't know. Nor, at this moment, care.

"Coffee will be ready in a few minutes."

"Play me something."

"I'll wake the neighbors. We have an agreement. They don't talk to me; I don't play piano after 1 a.m."

"Play softly."

"Yeah. Right. Then you'll fall asleep on my sofa and in the morning accuse me of taking advantage of you." Cuddy smiled.

"I wouldn't do that. Fine. Play me something on your guitar." House sighed, removing the Dobro from the wall. He sat next to Cuddy, picking up a small glass tube sitting atop the piano on the way. He retuned the strings and began a soft, slow blues, using the glass tube to ride across the strings up and down the neck of the ancient guitar. Cuddy closed her eyes, listening to the soft whine of the slide and House's intricate right-hand work across the guitar's belly.

House finished the piece, an old Blind Lemon Jefferson Delta Blues. He couldn't even remember the name of it. "I'll get you your coffee now."

"Where did you get it?" House shook his head, not understanding the question. The coffee maker? The guitar? His sense of humor?

"The music." She clarified. "I've met your parents, and they don't seem like the musical type to me. And you've got this incredible gift."

"Checking out my genes? That Mozart lie intrigue you?"

"Just curious."

"I don't know. Always been there. You're right about my parents. Of course, I'm not like them in oh, so many ways. Much to their considerable disappointment. And, no. I'm not adopted. Just different. Never wanted it to be that way. Believe me, it would have saved me a few black eyes and broken bones when I was a kid…"

"Were they…?" That would answer a lot of questions, if his father was abusive. This time House understood what she was asking.

"He didn't hit me. Neither did she. But an overly-curious loner whose grades set the curve in every class, every time without ever opening a book did not make me Mr. Popularity at too many air force base schools. Did make me a pretty good fighter, though, black eyes and broken bones notwithstanding." He looked away, willing his emotions away. The years had not made the pain any less. His memory was too acute, even years later. "I'll get that coffee now." He cursed himself for the disclosure. He was letting her get too close. He knew he couldn't do that. But he felt her inevitability and couldn't stop it either.

When he came back into the room bearing two mugs of coffee, Cuddy was wandering the room. "Is this real?" She pointed to the small Picasso lithograph on the wall.

"Signed and numbered and everything."

"It doesn't seem you. Like everything else here. The piano. The guitars. The books—I don't mean the medical texts. I mean the Yeats and Shakespeare; the biographies; the art. Is this who you really are?" It was an insane question.

"You forget the monster truck videos and the 'girls gone wild' DVDs."

"You are a man of eclectic tastes, it would seem." There was nothing left to say. Small talk didn't suit either of them. Quite suddenly, he was kissing her. Gentle, shy, testing kisses. They left her breathless.

He hadn't kissed anyone but Stacy in more than 10 years. Not really. He stopped, breaking away from her, knowing that he should. Waiting for the slap, the indignation and the outrage. But he had to know. Was this what she wanted? He was terrible at this game. That much he knew. This was the only way. He also suspected that she wasn't much better at it. Or else she wouldn't be looking for donors.

She couldn't think of anything rational to say. He seemed to be waiting. For what? For permission? That wasn't how it was supposed to work, was it? She stepped towards him, reaching her arms up and around his neck, drawing him into an embrace. There was so much wrong about this. But so much right.


	11. Chapter 11A night's peace

Floating

Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks for the feedback on the last chapter, and the encouragement. I did want to explore what I think is an underlying mutual affection that House and Cuddy have for one another. Hope you enjoy. Keep the feedback coming!

House broke away first. He was beyond aroused, but it had to end. For tonight, at least. "Cuddy." He looked into her questioning eyes. Pleading for understanding. He didn't want to have to express it in words.

Cuddy cleared her throat, pulling out of the embrace, embarrassed. She turned away towards his front door. "Coffee. You're not leaving until you've finished it. And you haven't even taken a sip. It's 10 bucks a pound. Think of all those starving…" She smiled, the tension momentarily broken. "Don't go. Not yet."

"House, I don't know what I was thinking. I'm…"

"Takes two."

"I really should go home."

"What would you have thought tomorrow morning, if we had…?" His hand motions were amusing. She felt calmed by the fact that he seemed equally flustered by what had happened. "You're way past politely pickled. I can't take advantage of your condition. Your hormones are in overdrive…" Honesty time. "Besides, I don't think I'm ready for…I mean…physically…I'm just not sure. Even if this was right for tonight."

Oh shit. What had she been thinking? Of course. She settled into one end of the sofa. It would be so easy, she thought, to stay. Here. With him tonight. Cuddy observed him as he picked up his mug and sat at the other end. He moved with a grace that should be impossible for such a tall man with a disabled leg. There was more gray in his hair than there was a year ago, she thought. It made his eyes even bluer, if possible. Eyes that were glacial when he was angry or upset. Nearly turquoise when he wore that sky blue shirt; and cobalt in the dim light of his apartment. He seemed more gaunt these days as well. Well, a shooting will do that you, won't it Lisa? Her eyes were closing involuntarily as she mused about him in silence. The coffee was decidedly NOT working.

"What sort of coffee is this, House? Sleepy time? Or did you put knock out drops in it?"

"Yeah, well I figured it was one way to keep you here. Kidnap you, lock you in the cellar until you spring me from clinic duty forever. Neat plan, huh?

"Seriously. I'm falling asleep here."

"You are a cheap date, aren't you."

"Hey, it's three a.m., and I worked all day. And schmoozed all evening. While you were comfortably snoozing in your office."

"Stay. You can give me a lift to the office. My bike…"

"Oh great, and you'd love it, wouldn't you, when we walk in together. The entire university will be abuzz, let alone the hospital. Especially when I walk in dressed like this."

"Oh, my bet is that you have a neatly packed bag in the trunk with a fresh suit, clean underwear and a makeup kit. If you want, you can drop me off a block from the hospital. I can walk the rest of the way." He was serious. And being gallant again. "You can have my bed or sleep here in Wilson's old bed." She smiled as he grandly gestured to the sofa.

"The sofa is fine," she finally said, acquiescing. House disappeared, only to re-emerge with a down pillow and comforter. And a tee-shirt.

"And this is my favorite tee-shirt, so I hope you don't slobber in your sleep." Cuddy rose to take the items from House. They stood facing each other, the silence awkward. "And Cuddy, if you still want my…help, in whatever form of…donation, I'm OK with that."

"You know it's more complicated if…"

"I know. That's why I'm leaving the delivery method up to you." She approached him. She was so sleepy. She slipped her arms around his waist, not having the energy to reach higher. It was a platonic embrace as she rested her head on his chest. His arms went around her shoulders, keeping her there, if only for a few moments more. He let her go suddenly. "You need to sleep, Cuddy. Hospital to run tomorrow. Lots of sick people to fix."

She let him see her smile, her face streaked with tears. "G'night, House."

Morning came too early as Cuddy's phone alarm rang promptly at 7:00. She had slept surprisingly well, only mildly surprised to find herself on House's sofa. She quietly retrieved her bag from the trunk of the Lexus.

She knew that House was a light sleeper, at least he was according to Wilson. House's bedroom door was ajar. She just wanted to check on him. Make certain that he was OK, she told herself.

He was sprawled across the huge antique sleigh bed. She wondered how much of the furniture were remnants of his time with Stacy. She didn't think that the intricate Victorian wrought ironwork was House's style, but then, so much about him was a surprise, who knew? She spotted the five string banjo sitting next to his bed. She wondered about that Mozart lie. And the exact number of musical instruments House knew how to play.

He seemed to be pretty peacefully sleeping. House's right hand lay protectively across his thigh. He had been through too much, she reasoned. She said a quick prayer that the freedom and peace granted by their ketamine gamble would continue to help House heal in body and in spirit.

By the time she had finished showering and dressing, House had woken and was sitting on the side of his bed. His door was open. "Oh good. I was just going to wake you."

House nodded. "Are you OK?"

"Just a little stiff." He was massaging his leg.

"Any pain?"

"My stitches are killing me. Gotta do something about his technique."

"Yeah, well remember it was a re-do. You're not rubbing your abdomen. You're rubbing your leg. Is it OK?"

"Reflex." Yeah. Right. He'd never admit he needed it. She quickly scanned the room, spotting his cane hanging on the door knob to his closet. She grabbed it, handing it to him before he had a chance to object.

"Do you need…?" What? He was weaned off the Vicodin. She returned to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of Advil and filled a glass with water. She shook out four liquid-gels. "Is this the first time you're experiencing pain since the treatment?" House nodded.

"It's not bad. I think maybe I overdid it yesterday. Maybe the post-surgery morphine I've been on is finally out of my system and this is my new normal. It's not bad," he repeated. He swallowed the pills, washing them down with the water.

Cuddy didn't want to ask for a numeric level. She didn't want him thinking too hard about it. "It's only a two…two-plus. It's OK. The Advil should kick in in a couple of minutes." He stood carefully, testing. He leaned on the cane, though not too heavily. It seemed to provide the needed support. His gait was good. Cuddy blew out a breath. Crisis over.

She waited as House showered and dressed, putting up a fresh pot of coffee. Cuddy found herself once again wandering House's living room, amused at the collection of trinkets, most of them antiques.

"Hey Cuddy!" House called from his bedroom. "Can you come by every morning and make coffee? If you do, I'll promise not to tell the entire hospital staff that you spent the night with your head on my pillow." Right. That was the House she knew. She took comfort in the fact that some things did not change.


	12. Chapter 12 acceptance

House was happy. As happy as can be a man still grieving the loss of a long, albeit stormy, relationship; as happy as can be a man still haunted by the ghost of a random shooter, who even now visited his dreams and occasionally plagued his waking hours. But it was enough. The pain was gone, or mostly so. At any rate, it was manageable.

The mind is a wondrous thing. It has only the briefest of memory for physical pain. The shortness of this sort of memory enables women to go through the intense pain of childbirth again and again; keeps us from sequestering ourselves in our homes, afraid scrapes, cuts and other results of a hazardous world.

House would never run again. He knew that. But he could walk unaided (most of the time); he could concentrate for hours without the veil of narcotics competing for his attention; without the intense pain as a constant distraction. It was even possible that somewhere down the line, he might play a game of tennis again. Or golf. These were simple pleasures. But when you've been denied access for years, the pleasure of even the thought of these things magnified to greatness.

House could look at a woman again, not seeing pity in her eyes nor furtive glances at his cane. Judging him for himself, not based on his disability. And patients, too, would see the doctor, not the cripple. Look at him with confidence, not look away with embarrassment for him.

The days became weeks. New patients came onto his service, were diagnosed and cured. House began to accept his new reality, his modest limitations and the great new freedom granted by some doctors in Germany. His colleagues stopped walking on eggshells around him, waiting for him to snap or fall, revert to type. He was no Marcus Welby, even now. But, then again, he never was. Nevertheless, the kinder, gentler Dr. Gregory House was the new reality for those who knew him.

He was still demanding of his team; he still suffered no fools or idiots; he railed at incompetence; scorned hypocrisy. He was still Gregory House, but some earlier, renovated version.

Wilson was the most surprised. Well, after Foreman, that is. "What is it with you these days, House? Lost your sense of humor?" They were sitting in House's office. Wilson sat across the desk from House, who played nervously with the red and white ball.

"What do you mean?"

"You. You've changed."

"Oh, where have I heard those words before?"

"No. It's not that I'm complaining. Believe me. But don't you think you're trying a little too hard at this 'being a good guy' game you've concocted?"

"It's not a game, Jimmy. I'm no less an ass than I ever was, only a pain-free ass. No pain; no drugs. Well unless you count ibuprofen…"

"Oh so you admit that the drugs messed you up."

"Oh here we go again. Look can't you just be happy for me and leave it alone?" House was now gripping the ball tightly. The tips of his fingers were white from the stress.

"You're taking nothing besides the IB? No antidepressants, anxiety meds, nothing else?" Wilson wondered why he was being so skeptical. Why he couldn't be less anxious about House's personality changes. "What about for you sleep problems, the vivid dreaming?"

"Give it a rest, Wilson. If you're so curious, break into my house and raid my medicine chest. What is it with you anyway?" House put the ball down, dismissing Wilson and ending the debate.

Wilson had seen it before. Patients, his own patients, suddenly feeling better because of a new treatment regimen that happened to work; coming out of a particularly nasty set of chemo sessions. The alleviation of misery, though intoxicating, was usually relatively short lived. This was the fear that lay unexpressed between them. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject with House. On the other hand, House probably understood a lot more than he was saying, and didn't need his closest friend—his only friend fighting against him.

House wasn't sure what bug was up Wilson's ass…or, maybe he was. "Look. I'm not going to crash and burn. Roll up into a little ball and cry for mommy if this doesn't last. I know that that's what you're thinking. I'm not one of your cancer chicks high on faith healers' words. If this lasts six months. Great. I'll re-do the treatment and I'll be good for another six months. It's in the literature. Booster treatments are common."

"Good." Wilson left, and headed downstairs.

"What do you think of House?"

"In which way, specifically do you mean, Dr. Wilson?"

"How he's doing. You're his doctor of record for the Ketamine. What do you think?"

"I think it's going according to plan, with several of the anticipated side effects. But those seem to be abating. The dreams aren't as disruptive; the hallucinations have pretty much disappeared. I think the desired effect's been achieved."

"What happens if it fails?"

"It hasn't…failed. It worked. Evidenced by the lack of cane, improvement in quality of life. He's even going to physio and wears a support brace around his thigh."

"That's not what I mean. You never asked me why I objected to his having the treatment done in the first place. It's not that I didn't think it would work. I know House far too well to think that he'd try snake oil. He did the reading and research before he came to us for help. I objected because I've seen far too many times in my practice, patients who get relief or remission only to have it fail after they've forgotten what it was like in the first place. When it comes back, they're not prepared. They crash. Hard."

"House doesn't have cancer."

"No, but with him, I think it may even be worse. He's beginning to come out of that hardened fortress, beginning to live again. It's like he's been climbing uphill for eight years and has finally reached a plateau, a place to rest and regroup. What if he falls all the way back down the mountain? Do you honestly think he'll have the energy to climb another mountain?"

"You suck at metaphors, Wilson. House deserves a little peace. This was his hail mary play. He had nowhere left to go. More like he was on a cliff, to use your metaphor, getting closer and closer to the edge. This pulled him back. Besides, it's working."

"Just so you know what my objections were, and still are. I just don't want to see him destroyed by this."

Wilson stood to go. Cuddy said nothing. House would not be destroyed by this. She wouldn't let it happen.

When Cuddy arrived at House's office, he was in the midst of an animated discussion with his team at the white board. She sat in his Eames chair and listened to the debate. It would almost seem to an outsider that he was just writing on a board everything said by three opinionated doctors. That he was the conduit for their discussion and nothing more.

She knew better. This was teaching at its best. House was the perfect example of the Socratic Method he was so fond of. He listened, filtered their ideas and asked pointed questions when the discussion down. He prodded and asked more questions. He wrote down much of what they said, but not all. He batted aside ideas that didn't fit, helped them massage ideas that might if they looked at them through a different prism. They thought he was being dismissive; he understood that he was teaching them to be better doctors. Better critical thinkers. Excellent diagnosticians. If they really paid attention, she thought, they might even pick up a few pointers what it means to be a real healer. But that wasn't something you could teach. It was something that you were or weren't.

She'd had her gripes with House. He could be outwardly arrogant and annoying to deal with. But upon closer observation she saw that he his arrogance was only for public display. He knew he hadn't all the answers. He questioned himself at every turn, at every judgment. It's why he lost so few patients that others had long ago given up on. His personality was abrasive. It was clear that he disdained everyone and hated everything. Until you managed a peek into a patient room, with House sitting at a bedside reading poetry, or talking softly and soothingly to someone who was desperately ill and needed to make life and death decisions that no one should have to make on their own behalf. Until you heard him play Bach or Beethoven. Or saw his eyes in despair as he peered helplessly into a patient room watching from afar as that patient slipped away.

Cuddy had witnessed all of those things over the years, she just hadn't realized it until now, thinking back, wondering where the cynical Dr. Gregory House had gone these past few weeks.

The DDX appeared to have ended for the moment and House's team scattered out of the conference room and onto their tasks. Cuddy stood, embarrassed that she'd been eavesdropping on them, sitting in his easy chair.

They hadn't spoken much in the past couple of weeks. Not avoiding each other, just not crossing each others' paths. They'd met in the hospital corridors; she'd observe him walking with his staff, talking to Wilson. She could see, easily, that he was progressing well; that the pain was under control. He seemed to be doing well. Physio reports showed improved tone in the muscles tangential to the scarring and increased strength. His wounds were healing.

"Cuddy." House was a bit taken aback to see her standing in the middle of his office.

"Hey. How're you doing?"

"Good. So what brings you up here?"

She was suddenly shy. Why was she here, she wondered to herself.

"I just…I wanted to know…I think you might be ready to return to your clinic duties. Your injuries seem to be healed…"

"That's not even close to the truth. That's not why you're here. Wilson been talking to you? Because my guess is that as soon as he left my office, he made a beeline to yours."

"Why do you say that?"

"He afraid I'm going to crash. I'm not…"

"That's not why I'm here," she interrupted. House tilted his head, puzzled. "I have to start my next round of injections tomorrow, if I'm going to try… Can you administer…?" The implications of this question had taken on greater significance and emotional risk than they had two months ago.

"This is the third round. Last month my OB did the injections. I have to admit, her technique is more practiced, but she halfway across town. You're more convenient. Would you mind…?" There was more to the question than the matter of a simple shot.

"If you start the injections tomorrow, you'll be…"

"If I'm going to do in vitro, the procedure will be done in…"

"I can count, Cuddy." Now it was House's turn to be shy. He had no way of knowing whether Cuddy even remembered their evening together, what they discussed. She had been pretty tipsy. Well, more than tipsy. He wasn't sure how to bring it up. "What about a donor?"

Cuddy was crestfallen. A donor? Hadn't he agreed that… House watched her eyes and her reaction. "I thought…?"

"I didn't know if you remembered. To be honest, you were pretty pickled. Or prettily pickled. Or something like that. I didn't want to presume…" He looked down at the floor.

"As I recall, the one thing we hadn't decided was the 'how.'"

"Ah. That." The question was there. Inevitable and imminent. But not something that could be decided standing in House's office in the middle of the afternoon.


	13. Chapter 13decisions

Floating

Chapter 13

A/N—This is definitely PG-13 + (not quite an R). Keep those cards and letters coming!

The fact of the matter was that Cuddy just wasn't sure about it. The "how." She could so easily see herself falling into his embrace, losing herself within the complexities of his eyes. And she wasn't all that sure that she wanted to "lose" herself. Not with House.

There was so much she loved about him; and so much that scared her about him. Stacy had loved him all these years. Through it all: the bitterness, the anguish, even through a new marriage. And he had loved her all these years. Through betrayal, desperate pain, her abandoning him mid-therapy, her marriage to Mark Warner.

That said something about House. Once committed, he was surely unlikely to bail. And what about that part? The daddy part. Cuddy was absolutely sure that House hadn't thought that far ahead. Or thought about it at all. She didn't want him to feel obligated. This was going to be her child. He didn't even need to acknowledge his part in it.

Of course, that part would be simpler if she simply asked him for a donation. A lot simpler. Maybe it would best for both of them. For everyone, if it stayed simple. Decision made. She would tell him sometime during the injection cycle. For all she knew, he would feel just the same way. Probably would. The injection sessions would provide an intimate enough setting, and a clinical enough setting to broach the subject.

"Need your help." Cuddy brandished a syringe as she stepping into House's inner office. House looked up from his desk. He was writing. "What're you doing?"

"Aw. You caught me. An expose about Deans of Medicine and their sexual exploits. Pictures and everything." She waited until he finished, hands on her hips. She couldn't help the smile that quirked the ends of her mouth. "An article, actually," he confided, suddenly serious. "An anecdotal clinical report on the Ketamine treatment. I thought that my perspective as a physician along with my patient experiences with the drug might make provide an interesting take. Journal of Pain Management asked me a while back if I'd be interested in writing something when I was researching the idea – if I decided to undergo the treatment. It's not really my field, but…"

"An article. It's been a long time. The hospital publications committee will be overwhelmed. How long has it been since you been the primary author on a paper?"

House thought a moment, calculating. "Eight years, four months and…two…no…three weeks. This Thursday."

"Well, however long it's been. I'm glad you've decided to do some writing. You're good at it. Besides, you have no idea how often I've had to run interference on your behalf with that committee."

"And every other committee," he replied _sotto voce_. Cuddy had been drawing the blinds and locking doors around his office. "Don't forget the balcony door. Never can tell when Wilson might pop in after hours."

He took in a breath as she handed him the syringe. The circumstances were different this time. This go-round. Last month, he'd he was lying half dead in the ER at injection time. Had a month really passed?

"Cuddy," he began quietly. "How much exactly do you remember about that night when you drove me home."

"Why? Did you give me GhB? Knock me out and have your way with me? 'Cause if you did…"

"What do you remember?"

"All of it." He nodded.

"Turn around and…"

"I know what to do." She smiled coyly at him, hiking the side of the skirt to expose her hip to him. He rubbed the swab gently in large, languorous circles. She was sorry when he stopped, momentarily forgetting the clinical nature of his action. She barely felt the prick of the needle. When she turned around, he was still close, waiting. For her to call the next move, and whether there would, indeed, be a next move. She was moved and terrified that he was leaving the entire decision up to her.

Cuddy breathed. She hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath, anticipating. Something. Anything. She had made the decision to let things fall as they may. That she would trust herself to be with House, entrust herself to him.

"I sure could use more of that fancy gourmet coffee of yours?" The non-sequitor took him slightly aback, until he looked into her eyes. He had never quite seen Cuddy's eyes before. The pupils were dilated. Of course, his office was pretty dimly lit. But he saw desire there, and fear. She wasn't sure about this, any more than he was.

"Looks like you could use it iced." She smiled. He had understood.

The thing about many highly intelligent people, is that they tend to overanalyze pretty much everything. Sometimes overanalysis is a good thing. Sometimes, it's better to think with other parts of the anatomy. But it was not just that both Cuddy and House were, by nature, overly analytical, but that both knew the risks, personal and professional, at stake should whatever they were headed into end badly.

"Cuddy." His voice was low. He stopped her from opening his office door. He approached her, placing his graceful hands on her shoulders. "Are you absolutely sure about this?"

"No. But neither are you. And sometimes it's just better to follow our instincts. That's what they're there for." He opened her arms to her, pulling her into an embrace, kissing her once top of her head as it rested on his chest. He broke away. "Let's leave your car here. We'll take the bike." He never thought she'd go for it.

"Why the Hell not? What's one more thing to throw at the wind?" House arched an eyebrow.

"You sure?" House tossed his helmet at her, followed quickly by his leather jacket.

This was not exactly an outfit meant for riding on the back of a motorbike. Nor the shoes. In truth, she'd never been on one. She examined it. At least it wasn't a Harley. It was beautiful, except for the huge dent on the side.

"How'd that happen?" she said a bit warily.

"Came that way. Matches me. Knocked a couple thousand off the price." Cuddy noticed the brackets.

"What're those for?"

"Cane. Are you stalling, Cuddy? Just get on."

"I'm not sure I can do this with these shoes." House rolled his eyes.

"Take them off and give them to me." He threw them into the blue bag. "You've never been on a bike."

"Brilliant deduction." House smiled. He was tempted to tease, but, with great effort, refrained.

"I'll get on, then you hop on behind me. Put the helmet on and hang on."

"To what?"

"To me."

"This is insane."

"Trust me."

"I am." With a lot more than a two mile motorbike ride. She was finally on the bike and ready to go. She leaned into him, grabbing his jacket. Smiling, he pulled her arms around him. She finally got the idea. She closed her eyes, cuddling against his back. "Oh god," she thought. "What the Hell have I gotten myself into." And they were off.

"This isn't the route to your apartment." They had stopped at a light.

"Not going there yet."

"Where…" Her question was cut off by the roar of the bike as it proceeded through the light.

They pulled off near the river. The area was unfamiliar to her. "Where are we?" Cuddy's efforts to fix her hair, wrecked by the wind, were to no avail.

"You'll see." They walked a short distance through a small park, passing the occasional homeless person asleep on a bench. "I used to love running along here. This part of the river. I started coming back here. Just to sit. To think. Here." They came to a clearing.

"Ow."

"What?"

"Shoes. I don't have…" He reached into his pack.

"Sorry. I forgot." Her spiky heels were only marginally better than bare feet. "It's not much farther." House reached for Cuddy's hand, guiding her down a small embankment. She had to admit, it was enchanting. The moon reflected on the still water creating its own half-light. But it was dark enough to see millions of stars, which pockmarked the black sky.

"Casseopia." Cuddy followed House's gaze upwards. He was pointing. "The Big Dipper…right…there." She didn't see it. "Cuddy. Stand here. Right in front of me." He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and left hand, guiding it, as he narrated what she was seeing. "Mars….there's Saturn. Venus." She leaned back lazily, nearly knocking him backwards with her unexpected movement. She turned helping him catch his balance before they both fell into the river. Cuddy held her breath as he leaned into her, bending to graze her lips with his. She shuddered at the sensation.

House continued in this fashion. Gentle, grazing kisses to her mouth, her jawline. Her eyes. He was making love to her. Slowly, infuriatingly slowly. Exquisite torture. His attentions were light as butterfly wings; they made her heart race. He stopped and she was bereft. "House…Greg…" she whispered. It was plea.

"Let's go." His voice was low. He touched her face, stroking the length of it with his thumb. "My apartment is only about three blocks from here."

The ride back to House's apartment was agonizing. She held him, her hands around his waist, under his dress shirt. She felt the scar from his abdominal surgery, stroking the sensitive skin around it.

"Cuddy, you're going drive me off the road. I can't…" But they had arrived. Finally.


	14. Chapter 14

Floating

Chapter 14

A/N: OK, guys. This chapter is pretty much R rated. It will be the only R-rated chapter in the story (probably). If you do not read this R-rated Chapter, the story will still make sense.

A/N #2—This story takes place with no knowledge of spoilers. I do know that some of the spoilers for season 3 make this story less likely in the form it takes. So it might be A/U.

Cuddy finally understood that Stacy's sexual attraction to House had nothing to do with prowess, size, or any other physical attribute. It had everything to do with sensitivity, attention, gentleness and passion. And concentration.

He didn't ravish her. He didn't take her. He didn't push her or coerce her. He made slow, sweet, intense, infuriatingly, agonizingly tender love to her. To all of her. It was insane. Who was this man, who spoke of hookers and funbags? Who was rude and crass and as insensitive as Homer Simpson? It was artifice. All of it. The cracks and remarks. All of it.

He touched her with an artist's hands; a musician's fingers. He kissed her with a poet's lips and burned her…no, more like…melted her until she was nothing more than a pool of sensation. She wanted him. More than she had wanted any man in her life at that moment. To her, the most erotic thing about this was the obvious effect it was having on him. She had barely touched him, though she wanted desperately to do so, yet he was as aroused as he was arousing. They were both still fully clothed as they lay in a tangle on the big leather sofa.

She reached out, pushing his suit jacket from his shoulders, telling him by her actions that she wanted him. She pulled at his shirt, trying to undo the buttons. Her actions caused him to pause. She missed his touch, but these clothes had to come off. Now.

He still hadn't said a word. He was savoring every inch of this. Of her. Lisa Cuddy. His destroyer; his savior; his evil witch; his angel of mercy. His equal. His.. Oh shit! "Cuddy." He stopped, frozen. "I don't know if I have protection."

"You're kidding. Mr. 'if-it's-Tuesday-it-must-be-hooker night?" She knew that wasn't fair—that he really didn't use hookers—often, if ever. She was breathless. House groped in the nightstand drawer. Maybe Stacy had left them when she had spent the night with him last winter. He thought…

"Score one for Stacy. She left us a belated Christmas…er…Chanukah…present." He brandished the small foil packet, pulling Cuddy into a sitting position.

"Wait. Idiot. It doesn't matter. Remember? First, I'm not ovulating yet. Not for a week after the last injection. Second, even if I was… God. You don't think you could have HIV?"

"I don't. Are you absolutely sure about this? Because it's really no…" Now it was her turn. She shut him up by otherwise engaging him mouth while she worked at his belt.

Most of their respective apparel removed, House took Cuddy's hand and led her the bedroom. "I can't be on top. My leg… I don't have the strength to…" He was still too insecure about it. It just didn't matter.

He wanted to look into her eyes as they made love. To see her face as she climaxed. He knew, though, that the price would have been exposing his ruined right thigh to her sight. He couldn't do that to either of them. Before he had a chance to douse the lamp, she was upon him—touching him in places he hadn't been touched for a very long time. She massaged, she caressed, bit and kissed. Her eyes were closed, taking him in, going with the feeling. But she was getting too close. He leaned over to reach the bedside lamp. Cuddy could sense his anxiety. "What's wrong?"

"The light, I want…"

"I want to see you."

"No. Cuddy. You don't." The last time she had seen the terrible scar had been that evening in her office, when he begged her, beyond simple agony, for that shot of morphine.

"House. Greg. I want you. All of you. It doesn't matter. I've seen your leg. I know. It's part of you. Goes with the whole, flawed package." Her hand reached out to it, caressing the jagged outlines, the uneven architecture of his right thigh. His entire body stiffened, and for a moment, she thought she had greatly miscalculated. But then he relaxed into her touch. Overwhelmed by his desire. He had lost the edges of his arousal, but Cuddy's ministrations brought him back to the very precipice. He was ready. They both were. The soared from the cliff's edge, floating back to earth when completely spent. It was right.

"You do realize we're screwed." House propped his head on his left hand, looking serious, though Cuddy was certain that she saw a gleam in his eyes.

"Quite literally. Yes, I had noticed."

"No, I mean. What now? You know Wilson will figure it out. He knows us both too well."

"He'll only be able to speculate. We can't let this out. Not yet. It's not that I don't want people to know. It's just that…"

House was nodding. "If it gets out, it undermines your authority. Credibility as dean goes out the window. I know all that. I agree. But you know, at some point…"

"I know We just have to figure out a way and a time. About the fertility thing too. We'll figure it out. C'mere."

Cuddy placed her arms around him, drawing House to her holding him. He needed to be held. To know he was cared for. To know he was…loved. And she could see it. Loving him, being in love with him. He had had far too little love in his life and far too much hurt and disappointment. She knew she couldn't recapture what he had lost, but she what she could give him might be enough.

They slept peacefully in each others' arms.


	15. Chapter 15

Floating

Chapter 15

Mornings often brings clarity. Thunderstorms don't seem nearly as scary by day; in the morning the aftermath of them can be all the more horrific.

Cuddy woke with a start as the morning light flooded into House's bedroom. Her immediate thought was to wonder how the Hell she was going to get to the hospital. She sure as Hell wasn't going to ride to work on the back of House's motorbike. Although she had to say, she might not mind another ride. At a more appropriate time. She poured through the possible explanations as to why she would appear at PPTH. On the back of a motorbike—House's motorbike. Wearing the same clothes she had on the day before. Anyone with an IQ over 60 would have no trouble doing the math. Great.

Call a taxi. The clock read 6:00. She could get in a cab to the hospital; shower in the locker room. She had a change of clothes. It was possible. And no one would see her at this hour. She glanced over at House. She didn't want to him to wake, thinking that she had simply left. She thought a note was too formal.

"House?" She gently shook his shoulder. One eye opened.

"What is it? Are you OK?" He was whispering. "What time is it?"

"It's early. I know you don't get up this early. I need to get back…" He realized her dilemma. "Give me a minute. I'll drive you back."

"It's fine. I can call a cab."

"It'll take forever. You'll never get there before change of shift. I assume you want to be as discreet as possible?"

"I can't ride on that bike. My hair will be a disaster. And talk about an obvious entrance."

"We'll take the car."

"You still have that 'vette?" He nodded.

"And it actually has gas in it, and it works and everything?" another nod.

"Hop in the shower. I'll make some coffee. Isn't that why you came by last night? I forget. Now beat it." He motioned her out of the room. House being modest? He was still surrounded by the duvet as Cuddy left the bedroom.

House heard the bathroom door close. He gingerly sat up, unconsciously rubbing the stiffness out of his right leg. Maybe it had been too much, too soon, he thought.

Stacy notwithstanding, it had been a long time. Cuddy had it all. She was beautiful, brilliant, funny. Like him, she suffered no fools. Including him. She had, as he'd always assumed a zesty body. Soft and curvaceous. And no pity. Oh, she was compassionate and sympathetic. But she didn't allow him to wallow, or to use his disability as a weapon. She was strong. He liked that. He'd never thought it possible before, that he might let Stacy go. Really go. That he was ready to move past her; move past the hurt and the betrayal; move past his love for her and on to something else. Something better. Maybe it wasn't too late. "Get a grip, House," he thought. One time. One evening and your… On the other hand, it really hadn't been one evening. It had been an accumulation of them. Years of accumulations. Maybe…

The pain wasn't too bad this morning, he thought. Better than he thought it might be after last night. Part of him had feared that the activity might trigger a rebound and a return of the pain. It had been reckless of them. The risks… But the pain wasn't too bad. An extra Advil wouldn't hurt, though.

He dropped Cuddy near the Hospital garage at her car. He looked around, making sure they were alone. "Cuddy. I…" His eyes were soft, almost colorless. He touched her cheek, stole one more kiss.

"What time would be convenient for you to give me the shot?" It doesn't have to be that late. I know you usually don't stay past 5, unless you have a case…"

"Same time is good. Your office or mine?"

House was not accustomed to being in the office quite so early. He had grabbed a bag with a change of clothes, choosing to shower in the physician's locker room rather than drive home.

Wilson noticed the light on in House's office. He hopped the barrier between their balconies, surprised when the door was locked. House rose to let Wilson in. The stiffness in his leg still had not quite abated. The four ibuprofen had not quite done the trick.

"You're in early. For you, that is."

"Things to do; people to see."

"You take the Corvette this morning? No bike?"

"Chance of rain."

"Says who? We're in the middle of a relentless heatwave. It hasn't rained for two weeks."

"I saw a cloud."

"What's going on. Is it your leg?" Thank you Jimmy.

"Yeah. I tried running last night. Stiffened up on me. So…"

"You know you need to be careful. You told me that yourself."

"I'll try to remember that."

"So, seriously, man, what are you doing in so early?"

"Seriously, Jimmy, no reason. I was just up." Wilson was curious about House's defensiveness. He sat across from House, who picked up one of his desk trinkets. "Look. Wilson. Why can't you just be happy for me and leave it. Pain's better. I'm off Vicodin. Morphine's history. What is it with you? I'm even writing a paper for a real, refereed journal."

"Now that, I'd like to see. Do you even know how to write anymore?"

"In seven languages. But I think this one's in English. Let me check. Yep. English."

"Fine. I'll let you get back to whatever you're up to. You don't want to tell me. That's fine…"

"For Chrissakes, Wilson. I'm writing." Good an excuse as any, he mused. Wilson noted the lack of chaos on House's desk, but said nothing.

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea. To work on the paper.

The team filtered in one by one. Cameron came in first, only to find the coffee already brewed. Wondering briefly if House had left it on all night, she noticed the lights on in his inner office. "You been here all night?"

"Not very observant, Dr. Cameron. Note the change of attire. Signifies that, no, I didn't. Stay here all night. Got sleep and everything."

"You're in a good mood this morning. Why are you here so early?" House rolled his eyes, making a mental note to never, every do this again. Hospitals were as full of nosy staff as they were of sick people. They were mercifully interrupted by Chase and Foreman, who were equally curious about their boss' early arrival.

"Remind me never to do this again. Come in early. It's too much of a shock to the staff. I can't bear the responsibility. If I'm not mistaken, you have a patient, who may be dying. I think he could use your attention more than I can."

House turned on his iPod. Beethoven's sixth. He frowned at the stack of journals on his desk. He was hopelessly behind on his reading. This was as good a day as any to catch up while the kids were busy working on the patient. The tests scheduled should pretty much last the entire day. If there was a God, he or she would be merciful and he'd be left alone.

House was engrossed in an article on a newly discovered Southeast Asian virus. He always enjoyed reading in French. It had been his first foreign language, having learned it as a kid. That and Latin.

"House?" Cuddy knocked and entered. He looked at his wristwatch.

"Eight o'clock already?" She smiled. She had forgotten to remind him that the regimen required two shots per day; not one. She had also neglected to tell him that she had crossed town to her OB for the first shot the day before.

"Two injections a day."

"Right. Here might not be the best place. You don't want to end up being part of the differential… Maybe your office might be…more private. Give me 15 minutes?"

"Sure. See ya."

"See ya." House turned back to the article. They could do this, she thought. Keep things professional—the way they were by day… It could work.

House looked up, watching Cuddy leave. Appreciating the way she slightly swayed as she walked; her confidence. He'd wanted to give this space. It might be too obvious, them cordially walking the corridors into her office. Her drawing the blinds. The math was too easy, and the hospital was full of smart people, after all; good at math.

He began to rise from his desk chair. House's right thigh clenched into a strong spasm. It gripped his leg like a vise. He sucked in a breath, sitting down hard on the chair, frozen tangled in the white hot pain. Every muscle in his body tensed in reaction. He furiously massaged his thigh, trying desperately to find the source. He knew he needed to stem the rising panic. He willed himself calm. It was a simple muscle cramp, he reasoned. He just needed to stand. Walk it off. Breathe in; breathe out.

As he relaxed, the pain began to subside. He was able to stand, put weight on the leg. It was still painful, but by now he was pretty sure that it was a simple cramp. He would be fine.

His hands were still trembling when he knocked on Cuddy's office door.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy's eyes went wide. She had just seen him half an hour before. He was 15 minutes late. But more troubling, he was pale; a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead. His gait was off. "House?"

"Stupid. I've been sitting at my desk for hours. I got a cramp in my thigh. …I panicked. Stupid, huh? A simple cramp and I thought…"

"House, you're afraid that the pain is going to return. And it's a real possibility. You know that. So it's normal for you to…"

His real fear was that every time he had an ache or pain, he would react this way. He couldn't live in constant fear. "I know all that. I do. It's not…"

Cuddy smiled wickedly, pulling his thoughts somewhat away from his anxiety. "I give a mean massage, you know." An exaggerated wink.

"I'll have to remember that. Ready?" He was feeling better, which reassured him that it was simply a cramp. He took a quick survey of the room. The blinds were drawn. She had locked the door of her inner office behind him.

He was all business. Professional as he could be under the circumstances, their evening together still quite fresh in his memory. Cuddy smoothed her skirt, turning to face him again. "Thank you, House. For all of this." She reached up to give him a quick kiss, trying very hard to keep this part, at least, as clinical as possible. He returned the kiss, taking his cue from her.

"How's your leg."

"Better. Fine."

"See you at eight."

"Do you want to grab something to eat after?" She appreciated the casualness of the invitation.

"Sure. But I'm driving." He tried to suppress a smile as he turned to go.

It was late afternoon when it happened. It was sudden and unmistakable for what it was. It was as simple as a stuck desk drawer becoming unexpectedly unstuck and hitting where it shouldn't have hit when it finally opened. It was no cramp; no abrasion. The pain was immediate and searing, engulfing his leg from knee to groin in a matter of seconds. He couldn't touch it, much less massage it. The soft brace he had been wearing these several weeks felt like a boa constrictor around his thigh.

He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to die right there sitting at his desk. He vaguely heard his team enter the outer office. Great. Maybe they would go away. It was nearly five.

"Dr. House?"

"What?" He hadn't meant to snap at her, only be terse. On the other hand, maybe if he was extra nasty, they'd all get pissed off and leave for the day.

"The treatment's working." She walked in sitting down at his desk. Foreman and Chase followed.

"Great." He tried not to gasp. He needed to get through this. The last thing he needed right now was Cameron's hovering, or Foreman's disdain. "Take the rest of the day off. Congratulations. You cured her."

"Him. Are you OK?" Figures Cameron would notice something wasn't right.

"Cramp. Been sitting here all afternoon…"

"Are you sure it's not… Because you are aware…"

"Cramp. Thanks for your concern, Foreman. Go. All of you. Scoot. Busy here." The three backed off. Foreman and Chase grabbing their cases from the outer office and out the door. Two down, one to go.

"Are you sure you're OK, House? You don't seem…"

"I told you. Slight cramp. Just unnerving, that's all. Go. Really." And she, too, was gone.

He needed to stand. Somehow. See if his leg could bear weight. He knew the answer, but he had to know. He raised himself cautiously on his left leg, letting that and his arms balancing on the desk support him. He tried a tentative step. No good. He fell backwards into the chair. He slammed his fist on the desk in frustration and pain. He wasn't ready for this. Not again, and not so soon.


	16. Chapter 16

Floating

Chapter 16

House's eyes darted wildly around his office, searching for something, anything, that would help him take more than a step. He couldn't just sit there. The pain was too intense, too unrelenting. It was only a matter of time before he passed out.

He needed to think, but the sharp edges of the pain severed every idea. He could focus on nothing else. But House knew that he had to get a grip. Pull his focus away from his leg. From the pain. Every muscle in House's body had tightened in response, maybe if he could relax, just a little.

The oversized tennis ball was in reach. Grabbing it, he compressed it hard, trying to divert some of the tension into the orb. Nothing.

Wilson. No, he couldn't call Wilson. Wilson would help him, go down to ortho and get him a cane or a crutch or something. But then Wilson would have the satisfaction of having been right and being his rescuer. He couldn't live with that. The pain was more livable.

Ortho. He could call down himself. Have them send someone up. House was by now gasping and bathed in sweat. His heart was racing.

"House?" He looked up, barely aware of her. "Oh my God. What's wrong?" He looked like Hell. She had been ringing his office and cell phone for nearly half an hour. She was hoping they could do the shot a little earlier than the planned 8:00. When he didn't answer his phone or pager, she came looking for him, slightly miffed that he had become incommunicado.

She made the eight steps to his desk in three, stepping around. He was pale, face bathed in perspiration. She crouched beside him. "Cuddy, I can't…my leg…"

"Ssh. Try not to talk. Just breathe. Nice, even breaths." She didn't go near his leg, which he had in a death grip between his hands. She needed to get him to relax, at least a little. Cuddy stood behind him, firmly kneading the area between his shoulders and neck. "House. I need you try and relax." His breathing was still too shallow. "C'mon."

House tried to comply. He tried focusing on the motion of Cuddy's hands working his shoulders. Closing his eyes, the soothing way she touched him competed for attention with the intensity of pain originating above his right knee. Cuddy felt him begin to relax. Not much, but enough for now.

"Can you give me a number?"

"Ten," he rasped. The expression in House's eyes, shattered her heart into a thousand fragments. But she needed to keep it together for now.

"This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy. I need a 50cc pre-loaded syringe of Demerol STAT, tourniquet and swabs. Diagnostics, second floor. I will sign for it myself when it's delivered."

House's eyes were closed again. "House, I need to get your jacket off, OK? You need to…" He slowly removed his hands from his leg, holding the rest of his body stiff to minimize any movement. "Is the pain worse when you move anything, or just when you move your leg."

He seemed less confused by the question than perplexed about how to respond in one or two words. He nodded instead. House sucked in a breath as she helped him with the jacket. Every movement seemed to send bolts of white hot fire into his right thigh. With his jacket removed, House began to shiver in the air conditioned office. His shirt was soaked through. Great, she thought. She removed her lab coat and threw it around his shoulders. It would have to do.

With his hands pried away from his leg, she crouched again taking his right arm. Keeping it as still as possible, she gently massaged his forearm. "Stay with me House, OK?" He nodded. She noticed that his breathing was better; however, she saw no evidence that the pain had at all receded.

Cuddy noticed the courier outside the diagnostics office at the same time she noticed Wilson in the corridor. She slipped out of House's office and into the hallway quickly and quietly before Wilson could notice from where she emerged.

"Dr. Wilson. You're here awfully late."

"Thought I saw a light on in House's office. I was going to ask him if he wanted to go get a beer. You could join us…"

"No, House and I have a meeting." Wilson's cocked an eyebrow, now overflowing with curiosity. "A little late for a meeting, eh?"

"Medicaid is after him again. I'm doing a pre-interview for the lawyer." She was surprised at the ease with which she lied to Wilson. It was a lame explanation anyway, but it would have to do. Cuddy noticed the courier turning to go, looking pissed off at the apparent practical joke.

"Wait. That's for me." Again, Wilson cocked an eyebrow. Cuddy took the package and quickly signed for it. "Thank you. Tell Rodrigo I appreciate…"

"No problem, Dr. Cuddy." Wilson had lost interest, retreating back down the corridor towards his own office.

House looked worse. He needed the shot immediately. She knew this should be done lying down, but there was no way to move him, and nowhere to lie down, and with an oxygen supply nearby, in case… But there was no time. "OK, House, I need you to make a fist." Right. He was barely responsive. She took his left arm. His veins looked good. Maybe she didn't need his help. She applied the tourniquet. She inserted the needle and slowly, slowly pushed the medication into his vein. Cuddy continued speaking gently to him, trying to break through the pain and its effects. She needed him to stay with her. "Just a couple of minutes. You should be feeling better."

The syringe emptied, Cuddy allowed herself a deep sigh. She entwined her fingers in House's and sat on the floor at his feet, careful to avoid his right leg. And waited.

Moments passed that seemed like months and the pain receded like a tide pulling away from the shore. "I'm sorry Cuddy."

She had been sitting, her head resting against his left knee, physically spent, when he came out of it. "How's the pain?"

"Better." He was shaky and lightheaded; but the pain was much better. "Four."

"I couldn't give you any more. I didn't know…I was concerned about your breathing." She took a breath, crisis over for the moment. "What happened? No…wait…Can you try standing? I want to get you over to your easy chair."

Cuddy saw the sudden panic in his eyes. He didn't want to know, but nodded groggily. She got to his right side to support him if he needed it. He rose from the chair tentatively, once again keeping his weight balanced on his left leg. Glancing at Cuddy he attempted to slowly put weight on his right leg. With great difficulty and Cuddy's firm support at his back, he made it across the room to the Eames chair, sitting heavily in it.

Cuddy lifted his legs to the foot rest, grabbing a desk chair to pull beside him. "Your shot."

"Can wait. What happened?"

"Textbook. I banged it with my desk drawer." His eyes were desolate. "It was a fantasy. Damn it, Cuddy. I never should have…"

"Maybe it's temporary. Maybe…" What? That he'll put himself through it again? Be extra careful when sitting at his desk? When driving a car? When lying in bed?

"Listen to me. I need you to stay focused and with me on this. We don't know that this isn't temporary. Even if it is, we don't know how much of a setback it is. You've been doing physio for a month now; we can do the booster treatment…"

"It's too soon for that. I won't be able to handle…"

"You don't know. Neither do I. We will get on the phone with the German researchers tomorrow if your condition doesn't change!" She was nearly shouting at him, beseeching him with her tone to not give up on this.

"I'm getting pretty sleepy here. Meds are really kicking in. I need to give you that shot before I…"

"Forget the damn injection."

"No. I can do it. You can't miss a treatment." He was right. She felt terrible, having him do this, when her attention should be on him. But maybe it would distract him for a few minutes. She was even half hoping for a crack at her expense.

Cuddy brought him the syringe and alcohol pads. She hiked her skirt, somewhat suggestively, hoping to keep him thinking about her and not about what had happened. He rubbed the area with the swab; she could feel his hands shaking slightly, then the slight pinch of the needle.

"Have I ever told you that you have a beautiful ass, Cuddy?" She smiled. Maybe…

"No, House, you haven't. Just that it was big."

"Well that was before I'd seen it. It's not big. It's perfect. Can I take it home with me? Keep it?"

"I don't know about the keeping part, but you can take it home any time you want." He was completely wasted on the Demerol. "But for right now, let's figure out how to get you home." She had thought momentarily of getting him a bed for the night in the hospital. Too many busybodies. Doctors' on-call room was a no-go. The beds were terrible; his pain too severe. She needed to get him home.

His place or hers. It didn't matter. She knew she'd have to stay with him. And she needed more Demerol in case the pain returned. They would talk about options in the morning. But not tonight.


	17. Chapter 17

Floating

Chapter 17

A flash of clarity in the chaos. She couldn't get him home. Not yet. What if there was something else going on with the leg? A new injury. Another clot. She needed to examine him to make sure it was only, right only, the original damage.

A new problem presented itself. A knock on the glass terrace door startled Cuddy. She looked back towards the sliding door. Wilson. Great. What was he still doing here. She thought of sending him away. Before she could think of something effective to put him off his curiosity, he had entered the office.

"What's going on? You are NOT going over Medic…" Then he really got a good look at House. "What happened?"

Cuddy sighed, unable to really conceal the truth from him. He'd know soon enough anyway. Her voice broke as she explained how she had found him. "Right now we're dealing with the pain. I gave him Demerol IV and it's taken most of the edge off. He's at a four. But he's loopy as Hell and I need to get his jeans off. I've got to get a look at his leg."

"You don't think it's a rebound?"

"It probably is rebound. It's too soon. It was working. He was beginning to…"

"There's a reason it's not considered a panacea. He knew the risks of the procedure. HE was willing to take the gamble."

"Still think it's a conversion disorder?

"I still think there's some degree of that. Yes. But I think that it was only part of the problem. I also think that he was beginning to live again. And this is going to be a huge blow to him."

"C'mon House, let's get your jeans off."

"Go away, Jimmy. Cuddy can handle this herself." That was new.

"Cuddy your best friend now?" House was stoned out of him mind. Wasted.

"She believed me."

"We need to get your jeans off so we can take a look at your leg."

"I don't think so." His voice was displayed a sudden alertness. "I really don't think that's a good idea."

"House." Cuddy understood. "I'm going to send Wilson to get a blanket from his office and find a cane for you to use. But I'm going to need you to help me, OK?"

"Cuddy. This is…" She walked Wilson back to the terrace door.

"You're an idiot, Wilson. He doesn't want to be seen. And I really don't want him any more upset than he already is…"

"He looks pretty relaxed to me."

"Demerol. It's a miracle drug. Makes the pain and the panic go away. Just go. I can handle this. He's going to need a cane to walk. He doesn't have one with him. You know he's self-conscious about the leg. A blanket will help. I know you've been sleeping here half the time. You must have a blanket in your office. Go."

Wilson was about to ask a question about why House would be any less self-conscious in front of Cuddy. But her tone of voice brooked no dissent. He filed it for a more appropriate moment.

Cuddy turned back to her patient. "OK, big boy. We got rid of dad. Let's get you stripped."

"Are you trying to encourage lascivious behavior, Cuddy?"

"Don't you know? It's the latest advance in pain management."

"Have to try that some time. Looks like…"

"Pants off. Now." She helped him sit on the edge of the chair. Despite the Demerol, anxiety radiated from him. He undid the zipper and pushed the jeans down until the waistband rested at the top of his thighs. He sighed, humiliated and defeated. The last thing he wanted to see right now was his destroyed right leg.

"Cuddy, can you…"

"Of course." She eased the waistband down, carefully as possible, trying to avoid scraping it across the terrible scar. "I'm going to remove the leg support, OK?" House nodded tentatively.

It had felt like a vise-grip before, now he almost believed that it and it alone was all that was holding his leg together. He braced for a new flood of pain, hoping the Demerol was enough. Cuddy spotted his jacket out of the corner of her eye. She retrieved it from the floor, where she had deposited it earlier. She draped it across his lap. It would do. He didn't need to see her see it. He didn't need to see it. Didn't need any more reminders.

If anyone had walked in on them, they might have mistakenly thought that something very naughty was going on in the eccentric Dr. Gregory House's private office. Cuddy was kneeling in front of him, ever-so-gently removing the elastic support from House's leg, her head virtually in his lap.

Part of House was amused by the vision of Cuddy in that position—the part that was on the outside, looking at her (and himself) through a Demerol fog. He tried to concentrate on the immediate situation. What Cuddy was doing; what she was going to do. To consider the implications of what had happened was… His mind would wander there. House would push back against it. Hard. He pulled his focus back towards her hands working the fasteners on the support, keeping some measure of pressure on his leg, even as she removed it. She worked slowly, deliberately. She didn't want a sudden change in pressure on his leg to worsen the pain.

"You doin' OK?"

"Yeah." It was fine. His leg didn't explode into a thousand pieces. It didn't even hurt much more than it had with the brace. He breathed out slowly.

"I know this my hurt a little, but I need to do just a little poking and prodding. No redness or warmth No swelling." She pushed in with her finger, watching the blood reperfuse the capillaries quickly. Is your foot cold?

"No. Cuddy, I don't think it's an clot, thrombotic or embolic. It's rebound. Pure and simple. It just fucking didn't work."

"It did work. We'll just have to redo… Figure out how to avoid..how to protect your leg better. It worked." She put her hands on his right thigh, now exposed below his jacket. She began a gentle massage. If she could just relax him a little. He was still so tense. House placed a hand on her head.

"Cuddy. No. It's not…" Even as he hated the attention to his leg, he craved her touch there. It was all so screwed up. All of it. Everything. It had been a fantasy and now it was over.

When Wilson breathlessly re-entered the office, he was carrying a blanket and an adjustable aluminum cane. Cuddy was still on the floor at the foot of House's chair.

"No wonder you wanted me out of the room." Wilson tried to make light of the sight, knowing that it was not what it appeared. Cuddy blushed unexpectedly, straightening her clothes as she got up to take the items from him. She would not look him in the eye. On the other hand, maybe it was.

"Hey, Wilson, I never break up your little rendezvous', do I? On the other hand, what the Hell does Cuddy want with a cripple? Right, Lisa? Gorgeous babe like you. Maybe Wilson's more your type." He was rambling, his moods swinging as erratically as he pulse had been earlier. Cuddy chuckled, going with it. Hoping that Wilson would see it for the drug-induced rant that it was…more or less.

Wilson looked from Cuddy to House and back again. He knew them both too well. "I'm just going to leave now. I think you're in good hands, House."

Cuddy approached Wilson, walking him to the office door. "I hope you know what you're doing, Cuddy."

"You questioning my medical expertise?"

"No. I'm not. Just your judgment. And I don't mean medical judgment, either. Just …take care of him. You don't know…"

"I know a lot more than you think I do Wilson." He voice sounded more indignant than she meant it to sound. And he was gone.

She turned her attention back to House, who was attempting to pull his jeans. It would have been humorous under other circumstances. Under these circumstances, the sight broke her heart and brought tears to her eyes.

"Need a hand?"

"Why Cuddy…" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. At least the vestiges of his sense of humor were remained. "And hand me the cane. Wilson has no sense of haberdashery style. Aluminum? No character to it at all." He lengthened it to the tallest setting, locking the pin in place.

"You seem like you're doing better."

"What can be better? Quality drugs. Quality babe. Brand new cane…I'm in heaven." There was a sharp edge to his voice. Bitter and harsh. "Look on the bright side, at least I can stand again." He rose from the chair shakily, re-doing his jeans.

"I know this sucks big time." She approached him, trying to draw near enough to touch his arm. He backed away, turning away from her.

"Sucks doesn't even begin to describe this." His voice was broken. He was being brave in the only way he knew how. She could feel him retreating from her inch by inch and she was helpless to bring him back.


	18. Chapter 18

Floating

Chapter 18

"So, Cuddy." He wheeled awkwardly, facing her. "I think I'm as good as I'm going to get her, so you can go now."

"House. First of all, I'm not leaving you like this. Second, we had a dinner date." What was she saying.

"Yeah, well I don't think I can do dinner tonight."

"No. You can't. But it doesn't change…"

"Cuddy, I don't need this."

"Yeah, actually, I think you do. I know how much you hate this…"

"I don't think so…"

"You're right. I don't. Not exactly. I can't even begin to imagine what you're feeling right now. I do know that it sucks. But I also believe that what happened last night…" God, she thought, was it only last night? "…what happened last night…meant something to you…to both us. And I'm not going to ignore it and pretend that it didn't happen or that it meant nothing just because…"

"I can still be your donor, if that's what your worried about. That part of me, I think is still functional."

"Look, House, I didn't want to do this now. I need to get you home."

"Dr. Cuddy to the rescue. I don't need rescuing."

"You did two hours ago. What were you planning on doing? Passing out from the pain at your desk? Let the team find you tomorrow morning, half dead and in shock?"

"I don't…Look, Cuddy, I'm fine now. I just…"

"You are NOT fine. That Demerol is going to wear off in a couple of hours."

"Great. Give me the kit. Wrap it in a doggie bag."

"You know I can't do that."

"Oh that's right. You think I'm a…what was it that you said to me a couple of months ago? On the road to being a junkie? I forgot."

"That's not what I mean! I don't…" He did not want her see him like this. He did the best he could to stride away from her, furiously shoving the conference room sliding door open. He paced the darkened room as he felt his life float away from him to a place just beyond his grasp. He picked up a random mug from the sink, slamming it against the bookcase, listening to it shatter before collapsing into the nearest desk chair.

He sensed Cuddy there, standing on the threshold between the two rooms, looking appropriately worried. He hated her for the pity that would be in her eyes. He hated himself more for putting it there; for this emotional display; his lack of control.

Cuddy watched him. She knew that whatever she said or did could be twisted and misconstrued. So she just watched him. For the moment. She closed the sliding doors, staying close, but on the other side. More than anything right now, she knew that House needed time alone. He would hate it, her hovering. So she just let him be as she stood vigil.

An hour passed, more or less and House finally looked up into the darkened conference room. He knew that Cuddy must be somewhere nearby. The Demerol had made him queasy and he scouted the room for the wastebasket just in case. He stood, a little dizzy, and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Leaning heavily on the cane, he sighed, and walked back into his office.

Cuddy had switched off the lights and was sitting in his chair, waiting. "I need to get you home." Her voice was soft. Firm, but not argumentative.

He looked down at her through weary, bleary eyes. "I know"

They took her car, traveling the short distance to his apartment in an uneasy silence. House was too subdued, she reflected. He was deep inside himself. Cuddy wasn't comfortable with that, but she knew she needed to allow him the space.

Pulling up in front of his building, he finally turned to her. "Don't come in with me. Please. I need…"

"I know. But I need to come in with you."

"I'm fine."

"You are anything but fine." Her tone tried to convey understanding, thinking she'd failed at that. She tried for honesty. "House. I am terrified right now. Terrified that you'll reject what we began last night. Terrified that I'll lose you to the darkness that I now feel you surrounding yourself with. Terrified that…"

"Terrified that what? That your boy toy will off himself if not under guard? This a suicide watch, Cuddy? I absolve you of both your professional and personal responsibilities towards me. I hereby promise not make friends with nearest razor blade. You don't have to worry. You can go home now."

"I don't want to." Her words were barely above a whisper. He stormed from the car, getting up too fast. He reeled from the dizziness that he had been feeling all evening, stumbling into the foyer. Cuddy was faster, unwilling to allow him to lock her out, following him into his flat.

House steadied himself against the front door, leaning back heavily into it. Not having seen Cuddy enter behind him, he flung the cane across the room, knocking a pile of books from a low shelf. He slid to the floor, silently sobbing in the darkness.

Cuddy approached him quietly, unafraid. She crouched at his side and held his head to her breast and wept for them both.


	19. Chapter 19

Floating

Chapter 19

It was a bad night about to get worse. House had fallen into a fitful sleep, still sitting slumped against his front door, wrapped in Cuddy's arms. She was afraid to move, not wanting to wake him. If they were lucky, he'd sleep until morning. It would be soon enough to deal with new realities. She kicked her shoes off, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible while trying to hold the much bigger House.

Cuddy was just nodding off when House began to thrash in his sleep. The abruptness of his movements made her jump. She was now wide awake. "I don't care what you told them, I'm not going to the Academy. I have no freaking interest in becoming a test pilot or an astronaut or whatever else you had in mind for me." Pause. "Yeah, well I don't need your support. Full ride from Michigan. Fine, you'll never see me again." He was shouting. His movements were wilder now, as if he was trying to run.

Then, he was limp in her arms, sighing as he nuzzled closer. Cuddy wondered briefly if he even knew with whom he was cuddling. It wasn't fair, she reasoned, that House should still be suffering the effects of the Ketamine now. She assumed that that was what it was—more vivid dreams. Or maybe he just talked in his sleep.

"Lisa, dance with me. We won't fall off. I'll hold you. No. You're wrong. The rooftop is the best place to dance. There's no one else here. The moonlight is brighter. Dance with me."

"House?" She looked at his face. He was still soundly asleep. Now she knew she had to wake him. It wasn't in her character to be a voyeur. And that's exactly what she was beginning to feel like.

House's eyes blinked open vacantly. He looked a bit disoriented. "Cuddy?" His voice was groggy. "What are you doing here? We were… I'm…" The wave of nausea rose suddenly. House scrambled for the bathroom, lurching towards to toilet, only to retch bile from his empty stomach.

His disorientation cleared, reality came flooding back in the guise of his throbbing leg. Cuddy gave him his privacy, waiting for him on the sofa. She rubbed her eyes. Exhausted, she glanced at her wristwatch. Three-ten. When he hadn't returned by 3:20, she went to find him. He was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, simply staring ahead. His breathing was shallow again. His pale eyes seemed to absorb every bit of the meager light in the room, emitting an odd glow, incongruous in the dark.

"House, how ya doin' in there?" No response. "Can I turn on the light?" No response. She flicked on the overhead light, causing House to flinch.

Cuddy kneeled between his legs, which were sprawled out in front of him. She lifted his hand, noting the racing pulse. "Hey." He finally moved, looking at her for the first time since the episode in his office.

"I dreamt about you."

"I heard a rumor. You know you talk in your sleep."

"Not usually. The dreams. They're very real."

"They can be. The Ketamine…" She trailed off, not wanting to start down that path. "I hope it was a nice dream. Did you buy me diamonds?"

"Hey. It was my dream, not yours." He was going with it. Good.

"I'm almost afraid to ask."

"You said I talked. What did I say?"

"You wanted to dance. With me. On a rooftop?" He shrugged. A weak smile appeared on his lips.

"Guess that'll be out of the question now, huh?"

"You seem to be doing better."

"I'm not." She knew that. He was playing along with her, because there was nothing else he could do.

"How's the leg?"

"Hurts like hell."

"Demerol's wearing off. Do you want me to give you another hit?" He shook his head.

"Not yet. Pain's a five, at worst." It was actually much worse than a five, he reckoned, or would be once he tried to put weight on the leg.

"Don't wait too long."

"First she calls me a junkie wanna-be; now she's pushing narcotics. Make up your mind." Now Cuddy smiled.

"Yeah? You look like a junkie sitting like that on the bathroom floor. C'mon I'll help you stand. Next time, don't throw your cane halfway across the room."

"Oops." He grabbed Cuddy's hands as she stood, balancing against the wall and using his good leg to stand upright against it. She left him for a second to retrieve one of his wood canes. She offered it to him.

"Better styling than the one Wilson gave you. Much classier." She was trying, he had to admit it. "Can you put any weight on it?"

"Not so much." He gasped. The pain was exquisite when he attempted to take a step, even with the cane.

"Here, let me support your right side." He looked at her skeptically. "Hey. I'm a lot stronger than you think."

"I don't doubt that for a second. But I outweigh you by 60 pounds. At least." But she was doing it. By the time she deposited him the overstuffed leather chair, he was trembling from exertion and pain. Other muscles were beginning to stiffen in response to the pain in his right quad.

"Do you really want to not take any more Demerol? I think you should…" He nodded tightly. He'd had a fleeting thought that it might abate on its own; that it was just stiffness; that…He didn't know what he thought. He only knew for certain that Doctor Florence Nightengale over there needed to get some sleep. And the only way she was going to allow herself that privilege was if he were knocked out completely.

"Knock me out, doc." She came back with the kit, thinking briefly of House's morphine emergency kit, hidden somewhere up among his books. Unless he'd thrown it away.

"Make a fist?" He complied. They'd need to think of other options in the morning. The Demerol was only a short-term solution at best. Going back on Vicodin would destroy his liver. Maybe he'd be willing to give the Ketamine another shot. Right now, he was coping. At least on the surface. It was the best she could hope for under the circumstances.

House positioned himself on the sofa while Cuddy retrieved a pillow and blanket from his bedroom. He was half asleep when she returned. "You don't want to take your clothes off?"

"You are one naughty girl, trying to take advantage of the cripple when he's all groggy and stuff…" She grinned at the half-hearted and bleary attempt at a come-back. He was halfway to la-la land. Well, considerably more than halfway.

"G'night House." Cuddy sighed as she saw him visibly relax into sleep. Thank God it was Saturday, she breathed.

Cuddy was restless and overtired. She wandered into the kitchen, remembering that she hadn't had eaten since lunch. She noted the gourmet design of the kitchen and cabinets fully stocked with good crystal and expensive stoneware. By contrast, the refrigerator was stocked with one bottle of slightly expired orange juice (freshly squeezed); a package of cheese sticks and loaf of white bread. Strawberry preserves and a jar of Jif Supercrunch completed the entire food inventory. Maybe she wasn't hungry after all.

After washing, Cuddy carefully removed her clothing, placing it at the foot of the bed and crawled wearily between the sheets. She noted their softness; the fine Egyptian cotton duvet covering the down comforter; the down pillows. Everything in this room; the whole flat spoke an elegant dialect at odds with the owner. Or at least with his image.

As she dozed off, she half-hoped; half-expected in her sleepiness that he would wander into the bedroom and find her there, lying in his bed. Naked. And the clock would be rewound 24 hours into an alternative universe where medicine did what it was supposed to do; and treatments went according to plan, and happiness was not quite so elusive. For either of them.


	20. Chapter 20

Floating

Chapter 20

Cuddy awoke to the ringing of a phone. A moment of realization that she wasn't in her own bed and the telephone had an unfamiliar ring. She picked up the receiver while looking at the ancient digital bedside alarm clock. Six-forty.

"Hello?" Her voice, what there was of it, was groggy.

"Oh. Sorry, I must have the wrong…" She recognized the voice through her sleepiness.

"Wilson?"

"Cuddy? I'm sorry, I must've hit the wrong speed dial…" No, you dialed correctly, she mused.

"No, you probably didn't"

"How is he?"

"Do you have any idea what time it is? Not good." She sighed. "He asleep. I gave him Demerol as a stop-gap. Until we can figure out…"

"He told me that he half expected the pain to return, that he'd re-do the treatment…"

"Yeah. I know, but this is less than a month. He's still got some lingering side-effects from the original treatment. I don't know if…"

"Is he still hallucinating?"

"I don't think so. But the vivid dreams haven't abated much." She was waiting for the conversation to turn from the clinical, as she knew it would. "I think we'll just have to play it by ear. For all we know, he could wake up this morning feeling great. Maybe he just needed some rest. Who the Hell knows?"

"How long's he been out?"

"About three and a half hours. I'm hoping he'll get a lot more. He told me that his sleep has been pretty intermittent these past several weeks. Maybe that's all this is…" She found it hard to keep the resignation from her voice.

"Why didn't you admit him?"

"I didn't want to overreact. What if this just is a blip? How would he have felt about landing back in the hospital?"

"How did you get him to even let you help? He's usually…"

"I'm persuasive." She didn't like where this was headed. "Listen, I think I hear him stirring, so…"

"I'll be over in half an hour. Sounds like you can use some rest yourself. You don't know how he'll be when…"

"No. We're fine. It's Saturday and I don't have anywhere I need to be." She didn't mean to sound defensive.

"Look, Cuddy," he began. "I don't know how involved the two of you are, and it's really none of my business.."

"Right. It is. None of your business…"

"It's not going to do him any good to have a fling right now." He waited, expecting a retort. None came. "He's more sensitive than he lets on. He's…"

"You have no I idea what I know and what I don't know." She shut up before she blurted out anything she'd regret in an hour. "Besides, you're jumping to an awful lot of conclusions..."

"Who's on the phone?" Cuddy jumped, startled. She pulled the duvet around her, embarrassed, realizing that she had gone to bed unclothed.

"Wilson," she mouthed. House shook his head. He didn't really feel like dealing with Wilson right now.

"I've got to go. He'll call you back when he gets up." She hung up and House cracked a weary smile. "Great. The town gossip now knows that you spent the night with me. Your virtue will be sullied within a matter of hours."

"He's concerned."

"Yeah." Noncommittal. He looked away, trying to conceal his own anxiety. Cuddy patted the bed.

"Sit." He deposited himself on the edge of the bed, next to her. Well, that was something. "Did the phone wake you? I was hoping you'd have gotten a little more sleep."

"Look, Cuddy. You really don't have to do this. I'll be fine, and this is getting a little too domestic to be comfortable for either of us. So…" He seemed pretty calm this morning. She ventured.

"How's your leg?"

"How much Demerol did you give me?"

"I was hoping you'd sleep. Why? Pain any better? It's been less than four hours, so…"

"Pain's not terrible, but as you say…" He paused. "I can't stay on it forever."

"Look, House, I want to go back through everything again. All the notes; the translations. I think it's way premature to give up on the Ketamine treatment. But right now, it's early. It's Saturday and I'm wiped out; I know you can use some more sleep…" Cuddy slid over to the far side of the bed, beckoning House to get in beside her.

"Cuddy, I don't think I can…"

"Can what? Sleep? Then just doze. You need to be off that leg…"

"That's not what I'm…"

"Well, it's what I'm talking about. G'night House." She turned her back towards him, cuddling the soft down pillow and waited. Ten minutes passed before she felt him stiffly lower himself into the other side of the bed. Cuddy finally let herself breathe.

It was 11 a.m. when Cuddy stretched, finally awake for good. She turned under the duvet and regarded House, who was still stiffly lying on the far edge of the bed, where he had been four hours earlier. It had been nearly eight hours since his last hit of pain meds and she wondered if he was asleep.

Cuddy slipped over to House's side of the bed, careful not to disturb his sleep. He hadn't moved. She quietly got out of bed and looked at her clothing. She really didn't want to put on her work attire. It was, after all, Saturday morning. A laundry basket of House's clean clothing sat on the floor near the window. She didn't think he'd mind, under the circumstances. She hoped not, anyway.

She selected a t-shirt, charcoal gray with a Pink Floyd Logo. She'd never seen him wear it before, figuring it was in "strictly for home use" collection. The shirt came down to her knees, and the short sleeves to her elbows. She moved around to the other side of the bed. House still hadn't moved. He was curled into a fetal position, his eyes wide open. How long had he been lying here, stock still and awake?

"House? Hey, you awake?" His eyes moved to her face, although the rest of him was eerily still.

"What the hell do you think?" they said to her, accusingly in his silence. She crouched to eye-level. She touched his face. He flinched at her touch. She knew that the pain level had gone severe again.

"Do you still have your supply of morphine?" He didn't know what she was asking. He looked at her half defensive, half questioning.

"I want to give you an intrathecal injection. Low dose. Do you have an appropriate syringe for spinal injection?" House's eyes went wide with surprise.

"No saline, this time?" he replied with some difficulty.

"No saline. The spinal injection will give you 24 hours. We need to figure out what's going on and how to…"

"Not that I'm turning down morphine at this point, but we don't need 24 hours to figure it out. I don't need five minutes. And it's not because I'm a world famous diagnostician, either." She was not going to argue with him. Not while he was in this much pain.

"Can you give me a number?"

"Seven…creeping with unnerving rapidity to eight. My 'first aid kit' is on the top shelf to the right of the fireplace. It's not easy to find. It's under about 50 old National Geographics and behind some textbooks." She turned to go. "Hey, Cuddy. Like the t-shirt on you." House closed his eyes, trying to relax against the throb in his right quad.


	21. Chapter 21

Floating

Chapter 21

"Diagnostics: when there is no box to think outside of." The textbook that made Dr. Gregory House famous. Finished two weeks before the infarction; published six months after. It was still required reading at most American and half the European medical schools. House had had boatloads of requests for guest lectures at universities world over; and conference papers at every major medical conference in every specialty from internal medicine to dermatology.

The simple irony was that House, himself had been the victim of the conventional thinking that his textbook argued against. That it had been finished and published concurrently with his own personal diagnostic tragedy was an even more bitter pill. He turned down every request; offers of endowed lecture chairs at Harvard, Hopkins and Northwestern; everything.

The 400-page volume now functioned as the place behind which House's supply of morphine lay hidden. When Cuddy came across it, a frisson of sadness came over her. She swept the dust from its cover, laying it aside as she uncovered the small metal lock box.

The box was equipped with three formulations of morphine and several syringe gagues. House, she mused, must've been a boy scout some time in his life. She selected the correct gauge needle and the appropriate vial. She knew, as did he, that the morphine administered this way would only take most of the edge off the pain, not erase it completely. He could take Motrin to supplement. It should make the pain at least tolerable.

House was lying in the same position as when she left. He watched her silently as she approached. She kneeled behind him on the bed. He was in a good position for the shot at least. House stiffened at the injection, relaxing visibly as Cuddy withdrew the needle. "Should kick in soon, hang on, OK?" Compassion filled her voice as she put the spend syringe on the nightstand and turned her attention back to the patient.

One set of instincts told her to hold him, curl around his back and hold him. Another sent red flags and warning sirens to not. So, she simply waited. Ten minutes passed. And finally he turned to face her. His eyes were examined her, sending shivers up and down her spine. "Thank you." The emotion in those two words overwhelmed Cuddy and the tears that had accumulated in her eyes now fled uncontrollably down her cheeks.

"This is so unfair."

"Welcome to my life. Next stop: the fifth circle of Hell. You sure you want to go there? You might be better off to keep riding past that stop and never look back."

"We started this together, when I said yes to the procedure. I'm in it for the duration."

"And the rest of it?" She knew what he was asking.

"We started that together, too…"

"I'm no walk in the park. Especially now. For that, you'll be better off with Wilson."

"Wilson's a philanderer. And a gossip. You keep secrets better. And I trust you. More than anybody. Not that you're not a narcissistic pain in the ass most of the time. And if I didn't believe in my heart that most of that was for benefit of our live audience, I'd probably go for Wilson. Or find someone else to do this with."

"I am not some knight errant. Or a frog prince; or even Beauty's beast. I am not a nice person. You, of all people, should know that by now."

"Fine. You're a rotten human being, misanthropic to the core. No argument from me. And guess what? I'm still here. If you didn't scare me away last night, it's not likely that your going to scare me this morning. How's your leg?"

"Better. Not great. But better."

"We have work to do. And I need a cup of coffee. Do you have any food in this apartment? Maybe I should have told Wilson to come over. At least he'd have brought some bagels."

"Bagel bakery down the street delivers…for an exorbitant fee. You got any money?"

"You don't?"

"No cash. Haven't been to the ATM."

"Figures. Fine. You buy dinner. You do have credit cards, don't you? You seem to have recovered at least some of your sense of humor. Not that that is a good thing, mind you."

"You seem to have that effect on me, Cuddy. Maybe it's that t-shirt that you're not really wearing…" House watched her blush as she followed his eyes down her shoulder. House's enormous t-shirt had fallen from her shoulders and half exposed her breasts to him.

"You must be doing better," she sighed, indignantly pulling the shirt up higher. "I'll go pick up some bagels. Will you be alright for a bit?"

"Seriously. They deliver."

"You don't want me to go?" Cuddy was suddenly concerned.

"Not dressed like that! Neighbors will talk. There will go my reputation."

"Fine. Call. I'll make some coffee." House was a bit groggy, slightly queasy, and enormously depressed, and still in more pain than he would admit to Cuddy, but for just a moment, he was enjoying this little bit of domesticity. He had missed it. For a long time. The sparring, the flirting on a lazy morning. The moment was fleeting, but he hoped it might return at a more opportune time as he watched Cuddy sashay from the room.

The coffee table was a tangle of papers in two languages; poppy seed remains of bagels, empty coffee mugs and feet. House had, at first, resisted going back through the notes. Cuddy insisted they backtrack through everything.

The procedure had worked. They knew that. A careful review of the notes revealed nothing that Cuddy or the anesthesiologist had done wrong. The dosages the titrations up and down; even the gradual decrease of narcotics – all done according to the plan.

"There's an anecdotal report here, House." He looked up from his reading. Cuddy was glad they were doing this. This analysis, the give and take… She could see the effect it was having on him. Intellectualizing. That's what it was called. It enabled him to look at what had happened dispassionately and maybe help him find his way through the disappointment and the return of the pain.

"A female patient, aged 38. Everything went well, etc. etc. And then, at the airport enroute back to the US, she bumped the injured area. The pain immediately returned."

"I've seen that report. But there's no information on what happened to her. Whether they redid the procedure so soon after the initial treatment."

"We can call. The original physicians. The researchers in Germany. You said they had given you notes. Maybe we can call them in on a consult. Do you have an email address or cell phone number."

"Yes." It wasn't that he hadn't thought of it before. He just wasn't sure he wanted to know the prognosis. What if there was nothing they could do at this point. House was a man of little hope on a good day. And he realized the potential effect of more bad news on his own fragile psyche. The clock on the dvd player read 3:00.

"It's too late to call today."

"What about emailing?"

"I…" Suddenly she understood why he was being hesitant. He was afraid. Reluctantly, in his own way, he was letting her know that. The admission, even couched as it was, staggered her.

"Do you mind if I email? I'm the physician of record. It makes more sense. Even though you know him."

"We're not exactly dating. No, I don't mind. I'll get you the address. You know, it's past time for your shot, Cuddy. Do you have your kit?"

"In my purse."

They had been sitting all day now, working reading, bantering back and forth when House's mood swang back from the eerie calm he had protected himself with, to a more animated posture. But they had not physically touched. Both of them felt the tension.

House drew out the dosage from the vial while Cuddy hiked the oversized t-shirt to her waist. House raised an eyebrow as he eyed the curve of her hip, involuntarily sighing as he delicately swabbed the area with alcohol.

"Cuddy." He had finished the injection. "I know this is going to sound like such a come-on, but you are one beautiful woman."

"If you think that line will get you anywhere…" He didn't really feel quite up to it. He was distracted and depressed. But he didn't want her to know that. "…it won't. Not today. I'm still concerned about your leg. I don't want any unnecessary activity aggravating it."

She wanted him. Her hormones were in overdrive, and his proximity combined with his vulnerability. Her feelings for him were no less complex than they had ever been, maybe more. Probably more. At that moment, she knew that she could so easily love him; be in love with him. Be with him forever. Right now, however, her more clinical instincts recognized that any attempt would likely end in failure. He was too distracted, she knew, and his mood swings signaled other issues. A perceived failure on his part would send him reeling, and she didn't want to be the cause of that. His male ego prevented her from explaining.

There was time.


	22. Chapter 22

Floating

Chapter 22

"We're idiots. Damn it." He was shouting in frustration. "How could I have missed this?" House was pointing to a paragraph in a monograph circled in red.

"House, calm down a second. What am I looking at?" It was written in German.

"It's right her. We've lost over 24 hours. I don't know if… Patient X. The one who bumped her leg on the airplane?"

"Following you so far."

"They did a follow up with sub-anesthetic dosages. It was enough to decrease the pain significantly almost immediately. Over the course of a week of daily treatments, the pain was back to base level." He looked up at Cuddy, who was now trying to read the German over his shoulder. "Here." He handed her the monograph.

"Were there any side effects?"

"Fewer than the original treatment." The earnestness in House's voice; the renewed energy almost propelled her into his arms. She hesitated. He did not. A moment's joy, a quick shower and off to the hospital.

House regarded Cuddy as she drove the eight miles to PPTH. It had been so long since he had even considered another relationship, the very idea seemed laughable. He knew himself well. Every involvement, be it a project, an idea, a patient…a woman was undertaken with an acute intensity. He knew how hard it was for him to let go.

It had been more than 10 years since he had first laid eyes on Stacy. Part of him could not even quite let go of her, and that had cost him earlier in the year. His first course of action was resistance in the extreme. It wasn't intentional. It was survival. Instinct at its most instinctual. Yet, here he was. With Cuddy. How had that happened?

Wilson had called him on it once. Describing to him the thin line between love and hate. House decried it as ridiculous. Even Chase and Foreman had seen it coming. House loved the exhilaration of arguing with her. She was a quick as he was, and as smart, if not smarter. Of course it really wasn't a game, most of the time. They argued matters of life and death; patient care and ethics; quality of life and right and wrong. Practical philosophy is NOT an oxymoron.

But fundamentally, he knew, when it came to patient care, she trusted him. Most of the time. She had hired him to make those decisions. By the time patients ended up on House's service, they had gone as far as conventional wisdom and accepted medical practice had taken them. By nature, his work was always experimental. They were dealing with the unknown and unknowable all the time. Last chance medicine. And it had worked for them.

But could he love her? That was the question. He had loved. Loved until it nearly killed him. Was there room in his life for another great love or was he just too beaten down and exhausted to really make the effort? His heart was willing; his brain was not so sure.

"What?" Cuddy noticed that he had been staring at her in silence. The attention unnerved her.

"Just watching. Can't I do that? Just watch you?" Cuddy blushed. This could work, he thought as he felt himself near the edge of a dangerous, enticing cliff. The image of Cuddy's cold glare that night when she'd cruelly given him the placebo conflicted with the Cuddy who had sat vigil in his office as his spirit shattered in the next room and then picked up his tattered remains and tried to glue them back together. He was drawn to her and afraid the attraction. Knowing it would lead him off the edge either into the safety of her arms or into a suicidal free-fall. Then again, he was never one to play it too safely.

Late Saturday afternoons were a busy time at PPTH everywhere except anesthesiology. They didn't stop at either of their offices, opting to head straight for a treatment room. "House, if this works, we do have some dosage options."

"I know. I don't want an infusion pump. There's a gel mentioned in one of the monographs. It's topical. No side effects." He was not welcoming a return of hallucinations, nor the sense of being in the altered state of his ketamine-induced vivid dreams. "It'll have to be custom formulated by our friend Rodirigo in the pharmacy, but I think I'd like to try that first. If this works."

"It will."

"Don't." His eyes begged her keep him grounded with this, to not play with his hopes.

"Ready?" He nodded his head. He was more than ready, as the morphine that had begun to wear off slowly had picked up speed in its retreat.

The effect was immediate. And profound. House looked at Cuddy, his eyes revealing the result. It had worked. For the time, anyway. "We'll have to do this every day for the next week. Once a day. If you're still pain free in a week, I'll have the pharmacy prepare the topical formulation."

For House, it was as if the clock had been set back 48 hours. He could do this. It was all about faith. What was it they said about leaps of faith? You just close your eyes and do it.

"How're you feeling?"

"Dizzy, but otherwise OK."

"Dizziness is…"

"An expected side effect." She handed him his cane.

"Here, I don't want you to fall on your ass. You owe me dinner. And my second injection of the day."

"Cool. You give me shots; I give you shots. Just like rock stars."

"Yeah. Just like."

Epilogue

The two month mark had passed since the original Ketamine treatment. House was experiencing no residual effects and was without significant pain from the original site. He ran. He loved. He smiled and was kind. Every day was lived on the edge of a cliff. For every day might be the last of its kind, before he was propelled back into the private Hell to which he had for so long been accustomed.

A/N:

That's all folks. This story now deposits you at the threshold of Season three, in which the now hypo-manic House worries everyone around him, despite being pain free and happy. Thanks for reading!


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